MARGOT'S 
PROGRESS 

by 

DOUGLAS  COLORING 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 


By  the  Same  Author 

THE  FORTUNE 

A  Romance  of  Friendship 

THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 
A  Play  in  Four  Acts 

REPUTATIONS 

Studies  in  Contemporary 
Literature 


MARGOT'S   PROGRESS 


BY 
DOUGLAS  GOLDRING 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  SELTZER 
1920 


Copyright,  1920, 
By  Thomas  Seltzer,  Inc. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

All  Rights  Reserved 


MARGOT'S   PROGRESS 

PART  I 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 


CHAPTER  I 

A  PERSISTENT,  jarring  tremor  ran  through  the  frame- 
work of  the  White  Star  liner  Majestic  as  her  engines 
forced  her  across  the  grey-blue  expanse  of  sea  which  now 
separated  the  great  ship  from  the  port  of  Cherbourg.  It 
was  almost  as  though  the  Majestic  were  herself  excited 
by  the  prospect  of  reaching  the  gateway  of  France  on 
this  April  morning,  as  excited  as  one,  at  least,  of  the 
passengers  she  carried. 

Maggie  Carter  lay  back  in  her  chair,  shading  her  eyes 
with  her  hand.  She  did  this,  not  to  protect  them  from 
the  sun,  but  because  she  was  afraid  their  shining  would 
betray  her  secret.  She  did  not  wish  anyone  to  guess 
what  this  moment  meant  to  her.  It  was  the  climax  of 
so  many  dreams  in  the  back  street  of  the  great  Canadian 
city  where  she  had  spent  most  of  her  life,  that  the 
occasion  was  one  which  called  for  the  completest  privacy. 
She  wanted  to  enjoy  it  all  by  herself,  and  when  she  saw 
the  quaint  backs  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Falkenheim  in  the 
distance — the  unromantic  good  fairies  who  were  making 
everything  possible — she  begged  her  stars  that  they 
would  keep  away.  She  wanted  to  be  alone  with  her  day- 
dreams, with  the  long,  long  thoughts  of  sweet-and-twenty, 
when  she  sees  the  cage-door  suddenly  ajar. 

A  nice  American  boy  in  the  chair  next  to  hers  had 
first  to  be  sharply  dealt  with  before  she  had  peace.  His 
dark  hair  was  plastered  down,  he  wore  a  well-cut  grey 

1 


2  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

suit,  a  rather  too  noticeable  shirt  and  tie,  and  patent- 
leather  shoes  over  mauve  silk  socks.  On  his  face  was 
the  smile  which  never,  never  comes  off.  Maggie  had  sat 
within  its  radiance  all  the  way  out  from  New  York,  and 
it  made  her  want  to  scream.  Its  owner,  young  Harry 
K.  Van  Bergen,  of  Chicago,  always  looked  overpower- 
ingly  cold-bathed  and  lively,  even  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  Maggie,  in  spite  of  her  Canadian  up- 
bringing, was  oppressed  by  his  efficiency.  Seeing  her 
shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  it  was  inevitable  that 
he  should  leap  for  his  field-glasses  and  adjust  them  for 
her.  "We  shall  be  in  sight  of  the  port  under  the  hour, 
I  reckon,"  he  remarked  in  his  bright,  open  way.  "You 
can  see  the  Cap  de  la  Hague  clearly  with  the  glasses." 

Maggie  took  them  in  order  not  to  be  uncivil,  but  she 
handed  them  back  as  quickly  as  she  could  and  refused 
to  be  talkative.  How  could  she  be  expected  to  talk,  with 
all  she  had  to  think  about?  Such  thoughts!  At  last 
she  was  to  see  Paris,  she,  Maggie  Carter  of  Price  Street ! 
She  was  actually  to  spend  three  weeks  there,  and  then 
to  stay  for  the  rest  of  the  season  in  Bayswater.  Bays- 
water,  to  her,  sounded  like  the  Fifth  Avenue  of  Heaven. 
Her  good  fairies  were  so  immoderately  rich  that  it  must 
surely  be  like  that.  She  dreamt  of  interminable  Bays- 
water  triumphs,  and  all  the  fairy-stories  and  "smart 
novels"  she  had  read  in  the  parlour  behind  the  paternal 
grocery  store  mingled  to  provide  a  setting  for  her  future 
exploits.  So  fierce  was  the  strength  of  the  stored  elec- 
tricity inside  her  that  she  felt  the  walls  of  London  must 
surely  succumb  to  her  attack,  just  as  the  walls  of 
Jericho  had  fallen  flat  before  the  trumpets.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Falkenheim,  who  held  the  keys  of  Bayswater,  had 
succumbed  on  the  second  evening  out  from  New  York, 
and  if  she  could  conquer  them,  surely  the  whole  world 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  3 

would  soon  be  at  her  feet.  She  had  first  noticed  them 
in  the  Bonaventure  Station  at  Montreal,  and  being 
impressed  by  their  luggage  had  contrived  to  settle  her- 
self in  the  same  part  of  the  train.  It  had  been  no  diffi- 
cult matter  to  get  into  conversation  with  Mrs.  Falken- 
heim,  and  a  question  about  New  York,  combined  with 
an  artless  confession  of  ignorance  and  a  general  look  of 
youth  and  inexperience,  had  been  enough  to  excite  the 
old  woman's  interest  and  to  tap  the  stream  of  her  good 
nature.  All  the  way  to  New  York  she  and  her  husband 
had  laid  themselves  out  to  be  pleasant  to  Maggie.  She 
lunched  and  dined  with  them,  and  as  the  train  hurried 
South  along  the  shores  of  lovely  Lake  Champlain  and 
by  the  side  of  the  Hudson  River  they  pointed  out  to  her 
all  the  famous  views.  They  were  as  eager  for  her  to 
make  the  most  of  her  opportunity  as  she  was  herself,  and 
were  enchanted  by  her  freshness  and  beauty. 

Maggie  very  soon  discovered  that  they  were  sailing  for 
Cherbourg  in  the  Majestic,  the  liner  on  which,  as  luck 
would  have  it,  she  herself  had  booked  her  passage. 
As  soon  as  she  got  on  board  ship  she  made  it  her 
business  to  see  that  the  purser  put  her  at  the  best  table, 
next  to  her  new  friends.  By  the  end  of  the  second  day 
out  she  had  distinctly  made  progress,  and  that  evening, 
after  dinner,  finding  herself  alone  for  a  moment  with 
Mr.  Falkenheim,  who  was  finishing  a  cigar,  she  had 
contrived  to  slip  her  little  hand  into  his  cold  palm,  while 
her  eyes  brimmed  with  tears.  Then  she  had  talked  to 
him  of  her  dead  mother  and  of  her  girlhood  "out  West." 
She  had  never  been  "out  West,"  but  her  dramatic 
instinct  told  her  that  it  sounded  better  than  a  descrip- 
tion of  618  Price  Street,  Montreal,  and  the  vending  of 
sugar,  tea,  and  Cheddar  cheese  from  a  minor  grocery 
store.  That  was  an  origin  which  Mr.  Falkenheim  would, 


4  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

of  course,  thoroughly  understand;  but  Maggie  had 
observed  that  for  some  reason  the  old  man  had  acquired 
a  romantic  love  for  the  open-air  adventurous  life  of  the 
prairies,  for  backwoods,  and  pioneers,  and  such  like. 
Perhaps  it  was  owing  to  the  fact  that  one  of  his  daughters, 
recently  dead,  had  been  married  to  a  Canadian  banker.  It 
was  in  connection  with  her  affairs  that  he  and  his  wife 
had  made  the  voyage  out  from  England.  He  had  been 
caught  by  the  glamour  of  the  new  country.  Its  vigorous 
air  seemed  to  blow  away  from  his  mind  that  odour  of 
old  clothes  which  all  the  perfumes  of  Araby,  applied  late 
in  life,  had  not  been  able  successfully  to  eradicate.  And 
this  wild  Canadian  creature,  so  typical — with  her  pale 
gold  hair  and  china  blue  eyes,  her  fair  skin  and  her  vivid 
colouring — of  the  land  of  her  birth,  captivated  him  com- 
pletely. The  result  of  his  admiration,  since  Israel 
Falkenheim  was  sixty-eight,  was  that  he  grew  senti- 
mental, in  a  dangerous,  paternal  way.  His  beady  black 
eyes,  however,  never  lost  their  observant  shrewdness,  and 
he  was  the  first  to  tell  himself  "there's  no  fool  like  an 
old  fool"  when  he  felt  her  warm  young  fingers  nestling 
in  his  hand. 

Mrs.  Falkenheim,  bless  her !  was  much  more  malleable 
than  her  husband,  and,  though  equally  shrewd,  was  too 
fat  and  lazy  to  be  suspicious.  After  the  death  of  her 
last  surviving  daughter  (she  had  borne  two)  her  heart 
had  kept  itself  young  by  innumerable  acts  of  generosity 
and  kindliness.  She  had  contracted  a  habit  of  declaring 
that  all  the  orphans  she  met  were  like  one  or  other  of 
her  lost  dear  ones — a  statement  not  always  well  received 
by  blonde  and  blue-eyed  Anglo-Saxons.  On  learning  that 
Maggie  was  motherless,  she  discerned  in  her  a  striking 
resemblance  to  the  lost  Leah. 

Maggie  would  play  around  Mrs.  Falkenheim  as  a  lamb 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  5 

gambols  around  its  mother,  pick  up  her  handkerchief,  or 
run  back  to  her  cabin  to  fetch  her  smelling-salts  (which 
enabled  her  to  study  at  leisure  the  inside  of  a  bathroom 
suite  de  luxe  and  to  assure  herself  that  the  Falkenheims 
were  really  and  truly  rich) .  She  quickly  became  as  great 
a  favourite  with  Mrs.  Falkenheim  as  with  Israel,  and  the 
handsome  old  woman  was  at  pains  tactfully  to  elicit 
Maggie's  life  history.  Maggie,  for  a  really  voluble  liar,  had 
a  surprisingly  good  memory  for  the  essential  points,  and 
where  one  of  her  stories  differed  from  another  the  differ- 
ences, as  a  rule,  could  be  explained  as  supplementary 
facts.  The  childhood  in  the  far  West  was  described  with 
simple  pathos,  and  being  even  more  ignorant  of  prairies 
than  Maggie,  Mrs.  Falkenheim  never  wondered  how  she 
had  managed  to  acquire  her  sharpened  and  town-polished 
brain  of  the  high-school  girl,  in  those  uncivilised  wilds. 
Maggie,  indeed,  in  spite  of  her  Colonial  drawl  (rather 
pronounced  at  this  stage  in  her  career),  was  plainly  a 
product  of  towns — to  anyone  who  could  observe.  She 
referred  to  "a  little  bit  of  money"  having  been  made  and 
left  to  her  "out  West,"  to  the  death  of  her  father,  and 
to  the  voyage  she  was  making  to  recover  from  her  grief. 
She  intended  to  stay  with  some  English  friends,  but  her 
plans  were  invitingly  indefinite.  Maggie's  heart  quailed 
as  she  thought  of  the  miserable  three  thousand  dollars 
of  which  her  "little  bit" — arising  from  the  sale  of  the 
grocery  store  on  her  father's  death — had  consisted,  and 
wondered  whether  what  remained  would  really  be  enough 
to  last  her  until  she  was  floated.  Her  orphanhood  and 
fri endlessness  were  genuine,  however,  if  her  hinted  for- 
tune was  not,  and  poor  Mrs.  Falkenheim  had  really  no 
chance.  The  protecting  wing  ached  to  be  allowed  to 
protect,  and  it  was  with  a  carefully  concealed  gasp  of 
relief  that  Maggie  had  submitted. 


6  M  ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

Maggie  frequently  talked  to  Mrs.  Falkenheim  with 
wide-open  and  upturned  blue  eyes  about  her  eagerness  to 
see  Paris.  This  eagerness  was  quite  genuine.  At 
Estelle's,  the  fashionable  couturiere  where  Maggie  had 
been  employed  for  two  years  before  her  father's  death, 
the  very  name  of  the  city  was  breathed  with  a  kind  of 
awe.  All  the  rich  ladies  from  Sherbrooke  Street  and  the 
Mount  Royal  quarter  wanted  to  be  "Parisian."  Maggie 
learnt  that  there  might  be  advantages,  after  all,  in 
belonging  to  the  despised  race  of  habitants.  At  least  they 
could  talk  French.  She  made  desperate  efforts  to  learn 
the  language  of  elegance.  It  seemed  ridiculous  to  live 
in  a  city  which  was  three-quarters  French  and  not  be 
able  to  speak  a  word  of  the  language ;  and  she  was  the 
only  girl  at  Estelle's  who  could  not  talk  it  more  easily 
than  English.  She  had  been  employed  first  as  a  manne- 
quin because  of  her  lovely  figure;  but  she  had  quickly 
proved  her  skill  as  a  saleswoman,  and  had  become  popular 
with  Madame's  clientele — so  much  so  that  Madame 
Valloton  (the  proprietor  and  manager  of  the  business) 
had  been  bitterly  disappointed  when  Maggie  decided  to 
leave.  "I'm  going  to  Paris,  Madame,"  Maggie  had  said 
very  decisively;  and  the  old  Frenchwoman,  in  spite  of 
her  chagrin  at  losing  so  useful  and  attractive  an  employee, 
had  not  been  able  to  resist  sympathy  with  this  natural 
determination.  She  gave  Maggie  an  introduction  to  a 
friend  of  hers,  a  Madame  Aicard,  who  lived  at  Bois  de 
Colombes,  between  Argent euil  and  Asnieres,  just  outside 
Paris.  "She  will  soon  find  you  something  to  do,  Miss 
Carter,  if  you  decide  to  stay  in  Paris."  Madame  Valloton 
smiled  a  sphinx-like  smile  at  the  blonde  Scotch  girl — a 
smile  which,  to  Maggie,  seemed  vaguely  sinister, 
malicious.  But  she  put  these  thoughts  aside,  confident 
in  her  ability  to  look  after  herself  and  her  virtue  in  the 


face  of  all  the  Madame  Aicards  in  existence,  and  gladly 
accepted  the  letter  of  introduction.  She  would  use  it,  if 
nothing  better  presented  itself.  So  much  for  Paris ;  for 
England  she  could  boast  a  more  or  less  vague  invitation 
from  an  old  clerical  admirer  called  Adam  Henderson. 
He  had  married,  was  become  a  country  vicar,  and  had 
started  a  preparatory  school  for  boys  in  Dorsetshire. 
Apart  from  these  two  names,  she  was  setting  out  on  her 
expedition  to  conquer  Europe  with  nothing  but  her  good 
looks,  her  youth,  and  her  six  hundred  pounds  to  recom- 
mend her.  But  she  did  not  care.  She  was  intoxicated 
with  her  ambitions,  with  the  incandescent  fire  of  her  de- 
termination. 

Madame  Valloton's  establishment  had  put  a  good  deal 
of  polish  on  the  Price  Street  grocer's  daughter,  a  fact  of 
which  Maggie  herself  was  gratefully  aware.  By  the  time 
she  left  it  she  could  speak  a  word  or  two  of  French  with 
a  tolerable  accent,  she  knew  a  great  deal  about  clothes, 
and  had  made  as  much  use  as  possible  of  her  opportunities 
of  observing  the  deportment  of  the  wealthy.  The  ladies 
whom  she  had  taken  as  her  models  were  perhaps  not  the 
safest  examples  to  follow,  but  in  relation  to  Price  Street 
they  formed  an  undoubted  upward  step.  On  the  day  that 
Maggie  was  ready  to  start  on  her  great  adventure  she  was 
quite  able  to  pass  muster,  while  she  was  quietly  and 
simply  but  at  the  same  time  perfectly  dressed.  Her 
appearance  was,  in  short,  so  very  much  "all  right"  that 
her  drawl  and  her  other  Colonial  peculiarities  were  put 
down  by  everyone  whom  she  encountered  on  board  ship 
as  the  hall-mark  of  immense  riches.  Even  the  Falken- 
heims — accustomed  as  they  were  to  appraise  social  values 
to  a  nicety — were  completely  deceived.  It  was  Maggie's 
earliest  triumph. 

Mrs.  Falkenheim  quickly  elicited  from  Maggie  the  fact 


8  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

that  she  did  not  know  personally  the  lady  whom  she  pro- 
posed to  visit  in  Paris,  and  was  extremely  perturbed  by 
the  discovery.  "My  dear,"  she  said,  "I  don't  at  all  like 
the  idea  of  your  going  to  stay  with  someone  you  have 
never  even  seen." 

"I  know  it  isn't  very  satisfactory,"  Maggie  replied 
plaintively,  "but  it  seemed  to  be  that  or  nothing,  and  I 
didn't  see  why  I  should  miss  Paris  just  because  I  hadn't 
any  relations  or  friends  to  go  with!" 

It  was  here  that  Mrs.  Falkenheim's  motherliness  got 
the  better  of  her.  How  could  she  resist  offering  to  fill 
the  place  of  the  missing  relatives?  She  could  not. 

"Now  I  have  a  splendid  suggestion  to  make.  As  the 
lady  you  propose  to  visit  is,  you  say,  a  total  stranger 
to  you,  and  you  don't  even  know  yet  whether  she  can 
take  you  in,  it  surely  can't  matter  at  all  if  you  don't 
go  to  her.  Why  don't  you  come  with  Mr.  Falkenheim 
and  me  to  the  'Capitol?'  We  are  staying  there  for  three 
weeks  or  so,  and  we  should  be  delighted  to  have  you 
with  us.  It  would  be  a  kindness  to  two  old  people  who 
have  lost  both  their  children !" 

Maggie  beamed  her  delight  at  this  invitation,  though 
native  caution  prevented  her  from  making  her  accept- 
ance effusive.  'And  then,  dear,"  Mrs.  Falkenheim  con- 
tinued, "you  must  come  and  stay  with  us  in  Bayswater 
for  a  week  or  two,  just  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  London 
season.  You  say  your  friends  live  in  the  country;  it 
would  be  a  great  pity  for  you  to  spend  June  in  the 
country.  August,  yes;  when  everything  is  over!"  The 
old  woman  looked  eager  as  a  child  as  she  spoke  to  Maggie 
about  the  excitements  of  the  London  summer.  "I  should 
like  to  give  a  little  dance  for  you,  my  dear.  It  makes 
an  interest.  With  your  hair  and  colouring  you  ought  to 
be  a  wonderful  success."  She  sighed  portentously. 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  9 

"My  little  Rebecca,  who  died  when  she  was  thirteen, 
would  just  have  been  coming  out  this  year!" 

Maggie,  inwardly  thanking  her  stars  that  Fate  had 
stifled  "little  Rebecca"  before  her  own  appearance,  looked 
as  sympathetic  as  she  could  contrive,  while  her  eyes  shone 
with  the  excitement  of  anticipation.  Life  was  almost 
unbearably  exciting!  She  had  been  invited  to  stay  in 
one  of  the  most  fashionable  hotels  in  the  world,  an  hotel 
that  she  had  read  of  in  Vogue,  in  Harper's  Bazaar,  in 
Town  Topics,  and  in  all  the  other  society  papers.  And 
then  she  was  to  stay  in  Bayswater  for  the  London  season, 
and  be  really  introduced  to  all  the  nobs — not  only  gape 
at  them  from  a  distance!  Her  excitement  burned  her 
like  fire.  . 

With  Cherbourg  drawing  nearer  every  minute,  the 
hard  and  practical  side  of  Maggie's  character  became 
obscured,  and  an  unsuspected  capacity  for  living  in  the 
heart  of  a  dream  revealed  itself.  The  experience,  as  the 
April  sunshine  grew  warmer  on  her  cheek  while  she 
waited  in  her  long  chair  for  the  ship  to  carry  her  to 
France,  linked  itself  to  those  other  radiant  experiences 
\vhich  made  milestones  in  her  life.  There  was  a  summer 
in  early  childhood  which  she  had  spent  at  a  fruit  farm  on 
the  shores  of  Lake  Ontario  with  an  aunt  and  uncle  and 
young  cousins.  She  remembered  the  warmth  of  the  sun 
on  her  bare  skin  when  she  and  Loo  had  run  off  one  day 
to  bathe  in  the  creek.  Then  there  was  an  afternoon 
when  they  had  lain  on  their  backs  in  hammocks  under 
the  fruit  trees,  and  dozed  in  the  shade,  talking.  There 
was  no  apparent  reason  why  she  should  remember  that 
afternoon;  nothing  had  happened;  she  had  just  been 
happy.  But  whenever  she  had  been  happy  since  it  had 
always  come  vividly  into  her  mind.  Later  there  was  one 
hectic  week  of  friendship  with  an  English  boy  called 


io  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

Jacky  Bruce.  Five  years  ago  it  was,  that  idyll,  and  she 
had  only  been  seventeen  and  a  half  then.  Jacky  was 
about  eighteen,  a  midshipman — a  "bit  of  old  Europe" 
stranded  for  a  week  in  the  great  Canadian  port.  He  had 
"picked  her  up"  on  the  ferry  going  to  St.  Helen's  Island, 
one  afternoon,  with  the  swiftness  and  aplomb  character- 
istic of  his  profession.  She  seemed  to  visualise  him  as 
vaulting  over  five-barred  gates,  swarming  up  rope-ladders, 
seizing  her  round  the  waist,  and  abducting  her  with  as 
much  veneration  as  if  she  were  the  image  of  a  saint. 
The  veneration  part  of  the  adventure  was  as  novel  as  the 
abduction,  and  touched  some  spring  inside  her  which 
unloosed  a  flood  of  inherited  longings.  Her  mother,  who 
had  died  in  giving  her  birth,  had  been  an  actress  in  an 
English  touring  company  which  had  visited  Montreal 
about  four-and-twenty  years  ago.  Maggie  did  not  even 
know  her  mother's  surname,  but  talking  to  Jacky  Bruce 
had  made  her  wonder  if  by  some  chance  she  could  have 
been  anything  like  what  she  imagined  his  sisters  to  be — 
that  is  to  say,  a  perfect  lady.  She  knew  perfect  ladies 
were  often  "bad,"  and  she  had  once  heard  grandmother 
Carter  tell  a  friend  that  her  mother  was  "a  bad  lot." 
There  was  no  photograph  of  the  late  Mrs.  Andrew  Carter 
in  existence,  save  one  which  Maggie  had  discovered  in  a 
drawer  in  which  she  was  supposed  not  to  look.  She 
had  annexed  this,  and  for  eight  years  she  preserved  it 
without  being  discovered.  As  she  grew  towards  woman- 
hood, the  faded  picture  exercised  a  fascination  over 
her.  The  large,  plaintive  eyes  which  looked  out  of  the 
photograph  seemed  to  contain  some  urgent  message,  and 
as  she  struggled  through  the  mysteries  of  adolescence 
the  longing  to  discover  what  the  message  was  became 
painful.  She  knew  instinctively  that  her  mother  was 
quite  different  from  her  father.  She  had  come  from 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  11 

England,  from  London ;  the  life  she  knew  best,  and  loved, 
was  the  life  they  lived  over  there  in  England.  Almost 
from  the  day  of  her  discovery  of  her  mother's  portrait 
Maggie  determined  to  get  across  to  England  as  soon  as 
she  could.  It  was  her  first  and  greatest  ambition,  and 
as  the  years  passed  it  became  an  idee  fixe. 

Her  girlhood  in  Price  Street  was  well  fitted  for  the 
growth  of  desires  of  this  kind,  for  she  never  learnt  to 
think  of  anyone  but  herself,  and  made  no  home  ties. 
From  an  early  age  she  disliked  her  morose  Scotch  father 
and  hated  the  chapel  where  he  preached.  Grandmother 
Carter,  with  her  corkscrew  ringlets  and  wheezy  cough, 
she  disliked  still  more.  She  had  never  met  anyone  to 
like  at  all  until  the  advent  of  Jacky  Bruce.  Perhaps  it 
was  this  loveless  upbringing  which  had  made  her  so 
singularly  lacking  in  moral  sensitiveness.  Almost  from 
her  cradle  wrong  had  existed  in  her  eyes  exclusively  in 
discovery.  It  was  perfectly  logical  that  with  the  in- 
stallation of  the  cash  register  in  Price  Street  her  desire 
to  rob  the  till  should  have  vanished  at  once.  Previously, 
she  had  been  accustomed,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  annex 
all  the  coins  she  could  lay  hands  on  without  being  found 
out.  If  risk  of  discovery  entered  into  the  adventure,  her 
temptations  automatically  expired.  Maggie  quickly  found 
out  all  her  father's  peculations,  and  her  contempt  for 
religion  increased  enormously  when,  at  the  age  of  thirteen, 
she  watched  him  sanding  the  sugar  for  the  ensuing  week, 
just  before  setting  out  to  preach  in  the  chapel.  -Getting 
on,  acquiring  money,  cheating  people  when  you  got  the 
chance  to  do  so  successfully  and  without  loss  of  kudos, 
consulting  always  one's  personal  advantage — these  were 
the  aims  and  objects  of  life  as  represented  in  her  Price 
Street  home.  On  the  emotional  side,  however,  Andrew 
Carter  let  himself  go  in  his  chapel.  Sentiment  and  self- 


12  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

importance  were  stimulated  there  as  if  by  a  kind  of 
emotional  dram-drinking,  and  year  after  year,  by  this 
Sunday  dope,  he  was  able  to  plod  with  fair  contentment 
through  the  week.  Maggie,  being  quite  insensible  to  the 
appeal  of  her  father's  religion,  and  being  also  her 
mother's  daughter,  imbibed  the  parental  selfishness  with- 
out achieving  the  contentment.  Her  dissatisfaction,  act- 
ing on  her  ardent  imagination,  made  her  first  build  dream 
castles,  then  work  to  realise  them  in  solid  stone.  For 
all  of  her  that  was  not  dreamer,  action,  constant  and 
continuous,  was  a  necessity  for  every  conscious  moment. 
She  had  no  scruples  in  being  picked  up  by  Jacky  Bruce 
since  she  did  not  know  anyone,  excepting  her  father, 
whose  opinion,  if  outraged  on  this  point,  would  have 
mattered  to  her.  And  as  she  had  early  made  herself  an 
expert  in  her  father's  movements,  she  had  no  fear  that  he 
would  find  her  out.  Looking  back  from  her  seat  on  the 
promenade  deck  of  the  Majestic,  with  Cherbourg  draw- 
ing momentarily  nearer,  the  delicious  flavour  of  that  early 
adventure  was  like  the  flavour  of  the  sun-warmed  sea 
air.  He  was  like  a  little  fairy  prince,  bless  him!  He 
had  treated  her  with  a  shy  reverence  mixed  with  devilry 
that  was  enchanting,  and  had  been  content  with  giving 
her  hot,  friendly,  boyish  kisses.  She  knew  instinctively 
that  he  was  no  more  properly  "grown  up"  than  she 
was!  And  he  had  not  seriously  encroached  on  the  one 
part  of  her  nature  about  which  she  was  timid  and  felt 
insecure.  She  looked  on  her  virtue  as  a  possession  to  be 
carefully  guarded  until  it  could  be  bartered  to  the  highest 
advantage.  What  made  her  nervous  was  her  ignorance 
of  the  nature  of  the  attacks,  from  within  herself,  against 
which  she  would  have  to  guard  it.  She  had  never,  so 
far,  wanted  to  yield.  Would  it  be  difficult  to  refuse  when 
the  time  came?  Her  extensive  knowledge  of  evil,  since 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  13 

it  was  entirely  theoretical,  did  not  help  her  in  the  essential 
point.  Sometimes  she  wished  Jacky  had  been  a  little 
more  adventurous — had  revealed  just  something  of  the 
mysteries  which  she  was  trying  to  fathom.  Perhaps  if  he 
had  put  a  little  more  ginger  into  his  kisses  the  dangerous 
emotions  might  have  fluttered  her  bosom.  They  hadn't. 
She  owed  many  things  to  Jacky,  but  not  that. 

The  American  boy  whose  advances  had  annoyed  her 
before  began  to  smile  at  her  again,  as  if  intending  to 
renew  the  conversation.  He  was  a  nice  enough  boy  if 
she  had  not  had  a  standard  of  comparison.  That  was 
where  Jacky  Bruce  came  in;  he  had  given  her  a  taste 
for  the  best.  Something  in  his  clear  blue  eyes  and  well- 
bathed,  firmly  knit  body,  something  in  his  ingenuous 
honesty  and  niceness,  had  spoiled  her  for  inferior  youths. 
In  her  searches  for  an  equal  to  Jacky  to  act  as  his  suc- 
cessor— searches  which  had  gone  on  with  desperation,  but 
without  result,  during  the  two  years  she  had  spent  at 
Estelle's — she  had  made  numbers  of  men  friends.  They 
had  taught  her  something  about  books  and  music  and  pic- 
tures, and  how  to  use  her  knife  and  fork,  and  the  names 
of  wines ;  and  all  of  them  had  confirmed  her  in  the  belief 
acquired  at  Madame  Valloton's  that  Paris  was  the 
promised  land.  Her  mind  had  blossomed  miraculously 
under  the  tuition  of  males  whose  intentions  were,  in  every 
case,  strictly  dishonourable.  What  Maggie  had  taught 
them  in  return  was  the  ease  with  which  an  utterly  raw, 
uneducated  girl  of  the  lower-middle  classes  can  bamboozle 
even  intelligent  men.  She  just  turned  round  and  trampled 
on  them.  It  amazed  her  to  see  the  success  which  almost 
invariably  attended  this  operation.  As  a  child  she  had 
perceived  that  a  pretty  girl  has  a  mysterious  advantage 
over  a  normally  developed  man ;  and  with  her  to  possess 
any  kind  of  power  was  to  use  it  remorselessly. 


14  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

"Well,  I  conclude  you  will  be  in  Paris  within  twelve 
hours,  Miss  Carter,"  Van  Bergen  remarked  imperturb- 
ably.  He  was  still  smiling  as  if  he  belonged  to  some 
"league  of  bright  faces,"  pledged  to  make  the  world 
more  cheerful. 

Maggie  was  not  quite  so  crushing  now.  Within  a  few 
moments  she  would  have  to  rejoin  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Falken- 
heim ;  there  would  be  the  bustle  and  confusion  of  land- 
ing very  shortly. 

She  smiled  back  at  him.  "Yes,  at  last !  Thank  good- 
ness!" 

"Jolly  to  be  back  again,  isn't  it?"  he  agreed.  "Where 
are  you  staying  this  time?" 

"This  time !"  she  echoed,  with  one  of  those  flashes  of 
candour  from  which  liars  often  get  their  best  effects, 
"why,  I've  never  been  to  France  before,  nor  Europe 
either !  •  I  think  it's  the  'Capitol'  we've  taken  rooms  at." 

"That  will  be  fine,"  said  Van  Bergen.  "I'm  going  on 
to  Paris,  too,  after  I've  been  to  London  to  see  my  tailor. 
I've  wirelessed  for  a  room  at  the  'Norfolk/  that's  close 
by  the  'Capitol,'  you  know,  in  the  Place  Vendome.  The 
'Capitol'  is  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli."  Van  Bergen  did  not 
like  her  to  think  he  wore  American  clothes  except  when 
his  English  tailor  was  not  available. 

"You  must  let  me  come  to  call  one  day  next  week. 
May  I?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Maggie  graciously,  scenting  invita- 
tions from  this  millionaire's  son.  She  always  accepted 
invitations,  on  the  principle  that  all  invitations  may  lead 
to  something.  "I  reckon  you'll  show  me  round  more 
than  what  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Falkenheim  will!" 


CHAPTER  II 

MAGGIE'S  first  few  days  in  Paris  passed  as  in  a  dream. 
Each  night,  when  she  laid  her  head  on  the  soft,  frilled 
pillow  in  her  big  bedroom  in  the  "Capitol,"  excitement 
struggled  with  exhaustion.  Exhaustion  always  won,  but 
she  would  fall  asleep  with  confused  images  of  the  day's 
sights  and  events  chasing  one  another  through  her  brain. 
Everything  was  new,  everything  a  delight,  and  a  thou- 
sand times  she  congratulated  herself  on  her  initiative  in 
investing  her  inheritance  in  thus  "seeing  life" — whatever 
further  payments  the  future  might  have  in  store.  The 
future — ah,  she  would  have  private  houses  of  her  own, 
still  more  gorgeous  than  the  "Capitol,"  and  cars  and 
frocks  and  fabulously  expensive  soaps;  and  scents  at 
twenty-five  francs  a  bottle,  like  those  she  had  seen  in  the 
Rue  de  la  Paix  and  refrained  from  buying.  She  always 
thought  of  her  future  just  before  she  fell  asleep ;  it  made 
her  sleep  happily. 

Although  familiar  from  her  earliest  youth  with  French- 
speaking  people,  nothing  could  have  been  stranger  than 
Paris  to  Maggie's  raw  but  keen  eyes.  The  flood  of  new 
sensations  dazed  her ;  the  concentration  of  rapturous,  new 
experiences — since  she  was  like  wax  to  impressions — was 
almost  more  than  she  could  assimilate  in  the  time.  The 
people  she  saw  in  the  streets  interested  her  particularly, 
and  she  thought  many  of  them  far  more  magnificent  than 
the  buildings.  As  far  as  buildings  went,  they  could  do 
you  a  good  line  in  them  away  out  in  Montreal.  But  she 
had  never  seen  a  rich  Canadian  look  quite  so  sumptuous 
as  the  people  she  saw  in  their  cars  in  the  Champs  Ely  sees, 

15 


16  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

or  lunching  at  Voisin's  or  Ledoyen's,  or  driving  in  the 
Bois.  To  her  these  elegantes  seemed  to  have  reached 
the  summit  of  human  splendour,  and  as  she  feverishly 
sized  them  up  and  realised  that  "stripped  she  could  give 
any  one  of  them  points  and  a  beating,"  the  desire  to 
reach  their  altitudes  and  to  be  attired  as  they  were  grew 
almost  insupportable.  Her  ambitions  became  clarified 
and  precise.  She  contrived  to  forget  all  about  Madame 
Aicard — except  for  the  few  moments  when  the  train  from 
Cherbourg  was  passing  the  little  houses,  bowered  in 
chestnut  trees,  of  Bois  de  Colombes — and  Mrs.  Falken- 
heim  was  too  tactful  to  ask  her  if  she  wanted  to  call  on 
her  friend.  Maggie  had  no  desire  for  her  relations  with 
the  excellent  Madame  Valloton  to  be  discovered;  she 
decided,  therefore,  to  obliterate  all  thought  of  the  lady 
to  whom  she  had  been  recommended. 

In  shopping  with  Mrs.  Falkenheim,  Maggie  contrived, 
with  the  aid  of  her  intimate  knowledge  of  the  dress- 
making business,  to  spend  as  little  as  possible  with  the 
maximum  effect.  "I  can't  afford  to  be  extravagant, 
you  know,"  she  had  said  confidentially,  and  the  result 
of  this  confidence,  together  with  a  longing  glance  at  a 
new  model  at  Doucet's  which  suited  her  to  perfection, 
had  resulted  in  the  gift  of  a  magnificent  ball  frock, 
delivered  in  due  course  to  her  room  at  the  "Capitol." 
It  was  characteristic  of  Maggie  that  on  this  happy  occa- 
sion it  was  on  the  success  of  her  manoeuvre  that  she  first 
congratulated  herself.  Mrs.  Falkenheim's  generosity 
occurred  to  her  only  as  an  after-thought. 

So  strange  had  Paris  and  its  inhabitants  been  to  her  at 
first  that  it  was  little  short  of  miraculous  the  speed  with 
which  Maggie  grew  acclimatised,  the  ease  with  which 
the  unaccustomed  splendours  of  hotel  and  restaurant 
became  familiar.  Within  a  day  or  two  the  tall  houses, 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  17 

the  crowded  streets  and  boulevards,  the  innumerable 
cafes  where  people  spent  hours  watching  the  passers-by, 
the  jostling,  cosmopolitan  throngs  on  the  pavements,  the 
shops  devoted  to  "horrid"  books  and  pictures,  the  pretty 
shop-girls  with  their  powdered  faces,  the  shady  chestnut 
trees,  the  smart  infants  with  their  nurses  in  the  Pare 
Monceau  or  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  even  the  mysterious 
"directions"  of  the  Metro  became  as  natural  to  her  as 
if  she  had  been  born  among  them.  A  few  days  more, 
and  it  seemed  impossible  that  she  could  ever  not  have 
known  them ;  and  Mr.  Falkenheim  himself  bowed  to  her 
knowledge  of  the  Metro  and  the  autobus  routes.  A  little 
fire  of  humour  would  lurk  at  the  bottom  of  his  dark  eyes 
when  he  glanced  at  her,  and  his  wrinkled,  Hebraic  face 
would  look  ten  years  younger.  Her  freshness  and  vivid- 
ness were  a  perpetual  delight  to  him,  and  in  watching 
the  glamour  reflected  in  her  eyes  he  recovered  some  of 
his  own  ardent  youth.  "I  can  see  you  think  Paris  is 
Heaven,  my  dear,"  he  once  said  to  her,  with  a  laugh, 
a  few  days  after  their  arrival,  "and  while  you  think  so,  it 
is  Heaven — for  you.  Keep  your  delusions  as  long  as  you 
can,"  he  added  wistfully.  Maggie  went  on  thinking 
Paris  Heaven  for  some  days  longer,  and  the  only  thing 
which  made  the  slighest  flaw  in  her  happiness  was  her 
realisation  of  all  it  had  to  teach  her.  She  always  spotted 
her  mistakes,  and  spotted  Israel  spotting  them,  and  to 
flounder  into  eating  asparagus  at  Voisin's  with  a  knife 
and  fork — and  a  steel  knife  too — would  spoil  a  whole  day 
for  her.  She  felt  more  and  more  that  Mr.  Falkenheim 
was  a  person  to  reckon  with;  his  acuteness  frightened 
her.  Realizing  that,  since  everything  depended  on  his 
good  nature,  it  would  be  safer  to  make  up  to  him  than 
to  constitute  herself  exclusively  his  wife's  friend,  she 
modelled  her  conduct  accordingly.  Whenever  she  was 


i8  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

not  busy  accompanying  Mrs.  Falkenheim  on  shopping 
expeditions  and  had  no  appointment  with  Van  Bergen — 
who  had  called,  as  he  had  promised  on  the  steamer  he 
would  call,  and  had  displayed  every  eagerness  to  "show 
her  around" — she  made  a  point  of  acting  the  part  of 
dutiful  daughter  to  her  benefactor.  Israel  Falkenheim 
was  one  of  the  world's  greatest  dealers  in  all  kinds  of 
works  of  art — in  pictures,  furniture,  tapestries,  china — 
everything  in  which  art  has  ever  been  employed  to  beau- 
tify life.  He  owned  a  great  shop  in  Bond  Street — 
Harland  Brothers — which  he  seldom  visited;  and  now 
in  his  old  age  he  had  nominally  retired  from  active 
business,  merely  allowing  himself  to  be  consulted  as  a 
specialist  by  favoured  clients  contemplating  colossal 
transactions,  or  by  students  and  learned  persons  anxious 
to  make  use  of  his  knowledge.  His  was  not  really  a 
business,  however,  from  which  it  was  possible  to  retire. 
The  things  in  which  he  had  always  dealt  were  a  passion 
with  him ;  only  death  itself  could  put  out  the  fire  of  his 
collector's  zeal. 

He  tried  to  awaken  in  Maggie  some  appreciation  of 
art,  by  no  means  unsuccessfully.  Pictures  and  beautiful 
things  had  meant  nothing  to  her  hitherto,  because  she 
had  never  seen  any,  but  she  realised  that  they  formed 
part  of  the  background  to  the  great  social  gathering  to 
which  she  had  invited  herself.  And  when  Israel  showed 
her  how  to  look  at  them,  she  came  to  like  them  for  their 
own  sakes.  She  spent  several  pleasant  mornings  with 
him  at  the  Louvre  and  at  the  Luxembourg.  At  first  it 
embarrassed  her  to  stare  at  such  a  picture  as  Manet's 
"Olympia"  in  the  company  of  a  man — even  an  old 
man — but,  seeing  many  austere  Englishwomen  carrying 
red  guide-books  and  doing  the  same,  she  concluded  it 
must  be  all  right.  Israel  seemed  not  to  notice  anything 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  19 

odd ;  his  interest  was  all  in  colour  schemes  and  composi- 
tion, in  the  thickness  or  thinness  of  the  paint,  and  his 
delight  in  the  picture  was  clearly  but  slightly  connected 
with  its  subject.  Once  in  the  Luxembourg  when  she 
had  thought  it  proper  to  blush,  he  had  looked  at  her 
quite  fiercely.  "The  human  body  is  divine,  my  dear, 
and  it  was  made  before  your  Paris  frocks.  You  should 
not  let  the  truth  embarrass  you ;  it  is  of  the  bourgeoisie, 
that!"  The  sting  was  in  the  tail  of  this  remark,  and 
Maggie  felt  it  to  be  true.  Had  the  old  man  scented  Price 
Street  ?  She  studied  Rodin's  "Age  d'Airain"  attentively, 
anxious  to  correct  the  bad  impression.  He  sent  her  to 
the  Salon  and  to  the  Independents  with  Mrs.  Falkenheim, 
saying  that  he  was  too  old  for  that  sort  of  thing,  and  that 
the  gravel  floor  of  the  Independents  hurt  his  corns,  and 
that  the  dead  mass  of  vile  painting  in  the  Salon  gave 
him  neuralgia.  When  he  saw,  however,  that  Maggie's 
interest  in  pictures  was  more  than  the  frivolous  surface 
interest  of  the  average  society  girl,  and  that  she  was 
eager  to  learn,  he  took  her  with  him  to  see  some  of  the 
Jewish  dealers  with  whom  he  had  business  relations. 
They  set  off  one  morning,  in  a  yellow  fiacre  with  smooth 
and  bulging  pneumatic  tyres,  and  a  driver  who  by  a 
miracle  was  cheerful — as  cheerful  as  the  brilliant  April 
sunshine — to  see  some  Goyas  about  which  he  had  just 
heard.  Maggie  enjoyed  the  drive  through  the  crowded 
streets.  She  was  conscious  of  looking  her  best,  and  real- 
ised that  her  blonde  freshness  was  admirably  set  off  by 
the  arresting  old  man  by  her  side,  whose  grey  felt  top-hat 
with  its  broad  black  band,  and  shabby  black  great-coat, 
made  a  foil  for  her  gay  plumage.  She  enjoyed  the  admir- 
ing glances  that  were  cast  at  her  with  discreet  intentness 
by  all  the  men ;  and  the  disdain  combined  with  curiosity, 
shown  in  the  women's  looks,  she  innocently  took  to  be  the 


20  AI  ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

compliment  of  envy.  Their  cab  made  its  way  slowly 
across  the  Place  de  1'Opera  and  down  the  Boulevard  des 
Italiens  till  it  reached  the  narrow  fissure  of  the  Rue  Laf- 
fitte.  The  great  white  church  crowning  the  hill  of  Mont- 
martre  seemed,  in  the  distance,  to  float  in  misty  golden 
air,  to  be  immaterial  as  a  vision.  The  cab  continued  a 
little  way  down  the  dark  street  till  it  stopped  at  an  un- 
pretentious doorway,  and  in  a  moment  Maggie  found  her- 
self in  a  long,  dimly  lighted  shop.  The  walls  were  lined 
with  books,  like  a  library.  A  heavy  green  carpet  covered 
the  floor,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  shop  was  a  low  and 
broad  table  with  an  electric  light  globe,  shaded  so  as  to 
throw  the  light  only  on  the  table,  immediately  above  it. 
A  large  portfolio  was  open  under  the  light,  and  two 
people  were  bending  over  it — an  old  man  in  a  black  velvet 
skull-cap  and  greasy  black  frock  coat,  and  a  younger  man 
whose  face  Maggie  could  not  see.  In  all  parts  of  the  shop 
similar  bulging  portfolios  leant  against  the  bookcases, 
accumulating  dust. 

"Bon  jour  mon  vieu.v.  Ca  va?"  said  Israel  cheer- 
fully, and  the  two  men  shook  hands  and  began,  to 
Maggie's  annoyance,  to  talk  rapidly  to  one  another  in 
French.  Their  conversation  enabled  her  to  examine  the 
companion  of  the  dealer  in  the  skull-cap.  He  returned 
her  gaze  with  a  kind  of  quizzical  interest  which  nettled 
her.  He  had  dark  hair  and  a  pale,  ivory  complexion, 
with  a  broad  forehead  lit  by  humorous  grey  eyes.  His  age 
might  have  been  anything  between  twenty-five  and  thirty- 
five,  and  to  her  eyes  he  looked  rather  like  a  Catholic 
priest  or  a  doctor,  those  being  almost  the  only  examples 
of  the  intellectual  classes  which  she  had  come  across. 
His  clothes  were  very  different  from  Van  Bergen's,  who 
always  looked  exactly  like  an  advertisement  for  men's 
costume  in  Munsey's  Magazine;  but  though  shabby  they 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  21 

seemed  to  fit  him.  Mr.  Falkenheim  interrupted  her  in- 
vestigations by  remembering  his  manners.  "But,  my 
dear  Jacobs,"  he  said,  "let  me  present  you  to  my  friend 
Miss  Carter." 

Mr.  Jacobs  bent  over  her  hand  and  muttered  his  ex- 
pressions of  enchantment.  "And  this  is  Mr.  Godfrey 
Levett,"  Mr.  Falkenheim  added,  with  a  smile  that  en- 
veloped both  Maggie  and  the  Englishman. 

"And  now  you  would  like  to  see  my  Goyas,  Israel," 
said  Mr.  Jacobs.  "They  are  beautiful,  beautiful." 

"And  you  won't  sleep  for  a  week  after  looking  at 
them,"  Mr.  Levett  remarked  to  Maggie  in  a  confidential 
undertone  which  she  thought  rather  forward.  Mr. 
Jacobs  hobbled  to  the  dim  end  of  his  shop  and  threw 
open  a  door  leading  into  a  large  annex,  lighted  from  the 
roof,  which  was  as  cheerful  as  the  shop  was  dark.  It 
was  a  miniature  picture  gallery  containing  about  a  dozen 
masterpieces.  The  roof  windows  were  swathed  in  folds 
of  white  muslin,  so  that  the  light  fell  with  perfect  even- 
ness on  the  canvases.  The  Goyas  which  formed  the  old 
man's  pride  were  five  in  number,  the  finest  of  them  being 
a  variation  of  the  picture  "Jeunesse,"  which  is  one  of 
the  glories  of  the  gallery  at  Lille.  This  picture  of  a 
dark-eyed  Spanish  girl  with  black  lace  mantilla,  covering 
her  black  hair  and  half  veiling  her  voluptuous  bosom, 
stretching  out  her  hand  over  which  bends  a  hideous 
gipsy  fortune-teller,  thrilled  Maggie  at  once.  There  was 
an  excitement  in  the  stormy  background,  in  the  dark  blue 
and  grey  clouds,  the  sinister  white  houses  lit  up  by  the 
disturbing  light  in  the  sky,  in  the  passionate  glance  of 
the  young  woman  and  the  cruel  gleam  in  the  gipsy's 
eyes,  which  made  her  shiver  with  emotion.  The  very 
violence  of  the  conception  appealed  to  her  violent  nature. 
The  other  smaller  pictures  did  not  appeal  to  her  as  much 


22  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

as  the  chef  d'oeuvre  of  the  collection.  There  were  two 
portraits  of  Spanish  gentlemen,  whose  large,  bony,  and 
solemn  faces  displayed  a  pathetic  combination  of  stu- 
pidity and  high  breeding.  The  artist  had  been  almost 
gentle  with  his  subjects;  perhaps  the  edge  of  his  mor- 
dant humour  had  been  blunted  by  large  payments.  The 
remaining  two  pictures  were  quite  small.  One  repre- 
sented a  prostitute  in  prison,  sitting  up  and  clasping  her 
knees.  Her  eyes  were  shut,  her  face  dead  white,  her 
mouth  open. 

"I  reckon  she  looks  as  if  she's  going  to  be  sick,"  was 
Maggie's  disgusted  comment, — "fairly  on  the  bink  after 
a  wet  night.  While  as  for  this  one" — she  pointed  to  the 
remaining  picture,  a  rough  sketch  showing  a  murderer  on 
a  platform  raised  above  the  jostling  throng  of  spectators, 
on  the  point  of  being  garrotted  for  his  crime. — "as  for  this 
one,  he  looks  as  though  his  mother  ought  to  have  done 
that  for  him  young!" 

She  noticed  that  Mr.  Levett  laughed  immoderately  at 
this  sally,  while  Israel  turned  on  her  that  beady,  apprais- 
ing glance  which  her  difficulties  with  the  asparagus  had 
brought  down  on  her.  Falkenheim's  look  made  her 
suspect  Mr.  Levett's  hilarity,  so  she  turned  her  back 
on  him  while  the  two  dealers  were  discussing  technical 
points,  in  French,  in  connection  with  the  pictures  and  the 
prices  they  might  be  expected  to  fetch.  She  was  notice- 
ably cold  to  Levett  when  they  said  good-bye,  giving  him  a 
curt  nod  over  her  shoulder  in  contrast  to  her  cordial  hand- 
shake with  Mr.  Jacobs. 

"Nice  young  man,  that,"  Mr.  Falkenheim  remarked 
absently  as  they  drove  off  to  pick  up  Mrs.  Falkenheim 
for  luncheon.  "He  has  talent,  too.  I  dare  say  we  shall 
see  something  of  him  in  London.  There  is  one  of  his 
plays  on  now  at  the  'First  Avenue,'  and  I  believe  it  is  a 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  23 

success.  .  .  .  He  knows  a  good  deal  about  pictures 
for  an  amateur." 

"I  thought  he  seemed  rather  shabby  and  dull," 
Baggie  remarked  loftily. 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  chuckled  Mr.  Falkenheim,  "artists 
nearly  always  are  both  those  things,  if  they  have  talent. 
It's  only  the  artistic  who  look  important  and  cut  a  dash 
in  drawing-rooms.  .  .  ." 

"No,  I  shouldn't  think  he'd  cut  a  dash  in  drawing- 
rooms,"  said  Maggie.  "Most  ladies  want  something  more 
on  the  spot  than  that."  Mr.  Falkenheim  rested  his  hand 
on  hers  and  smiled  at  her  his  curious  smile,  which  always 
made  her  feel  "discovered."  She  was  glad  to  change 
the  conversation  on  to  securer  ground. 

That  afternoon  she  had  arranged  to  go  motoring  with 
Harry  Van  Bergen,  and  she  was  able  to  begin  some  useful 
exercises  in  comparison.  Van  Bergen  was  essentially  a 
man  to  "cut  a  dash  in  drawing-rooms."  She  divined  his 
technique,  and  as  she  saw  more  of  him  and  found  that 
his  perpetual  smile  of  impersonal  cheerfulness  never 
grew  warmer  or  more  intimate,  she  suspected  its  cause. 
It  wasn't  just  amiability,  admiration — it  was  a  consum- 
mate social  mask.  There  were  occasions  when  she  came 
up  against  a  wall  of  tact.  He  avoided  meeting  the 
Falkenheims,  for  instance,  as  far  as  he  could  do  so 
without  giving  offence.  She  wondered  if  this  were 
because  they  were  Jews.  She  remembered  having  heard 
that  Jews  were  not  admitted  into  "society."  On  the 
other  hand,  she  had  always  been  brought  up  to  believe 
that  the  rich  were  the  lords  of  the  earth,  and  she  was 
convinced  that  the  Falkenheims  would  be  considered 
rich,  even  in  America.  Van  Bergen  seemed  full  of  these 
tactfully  concealed  social  reservations,  and  she  even 
suspected  him  of  exercising  them  in  regard  to  herself 


24  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

and  his  numerous  other  English  and  American  friends 
in  Paris.  Had  Van  Bergen  cared,  he  could  have  intro- 
duced her  to  all  sorts  of  amusing  people,  but  the  oppor- 
tunities seemed  always  to  be  avoided.  Once,  however, 
when  they  were  lunching  at  a  restaurant  at  Versailles,  his 
manoeuvring  had  not  been  able  to  prevent  an  encounter, 
and  Maggie  had  been  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  irritation 
behind  the  all-enveloping,  ever-present  smile  of  her  com- 
panion. The  friends  to  whom  Van  Bergen  found  himself 
forced  to  introduce  her  were  two  English  women  called 
Elkington — a  mother  and  daughter.  They  impressed  her 
at  once  as  being  "the  real  thing,"  and  her  instinct,  in 
this  case,  was  by  no  means  at  fault.  Rachel  Elkington 
was  quite  a  different  type  from  any  with  which  she  was 
familiar.  She  had  never  before  seen  an  obviously  plain 
English  woman  who  took  the  trouble  to  be  exquisitely 
dressed.  And  Miss  Elkington  combined  with  her  look  of 
distinction  an  absence  of  desire  to  attract  notice  which 
filled  Maggie  with  envious  reflection.  Mrs.  Elkington, 
with  her  white  hair,  fat  face,  and  dry,  disturbing  laughter, 
if  not  so  agreeable,  contrived  to  look  equally  distinguished. 
The  small  grey  eyes,  that  peered  occasionally  through 
lorgnettes,  looked  as  shrewd  as  old  Falkenheim's  and 
even  more  satirical.  Maggie  fancied  herself  being  cor- 
rectly derived  from  Price  Street,  when  they  rested  on 
her  as  Van  Bergen  made  the  introduction. 

There  was  an  intangible  something  in  the  way  Van 
Bergen  presented  her  to  his  friends  which  made  Maggie's 
blood  boil,  and  she  determined  that  from  that  day  on- 
wards she  would  see  no  more  of  him.  Her  anger  made 
her  trebly  anxious  to  go  down  well  with  the  Elkingtons, 
and  she  exerted  herself  to  the  utmost.  From  the  charm- 
ing way  in  which  they  both  shook  hands  with  her — she 
assimilated  their  manner  immediately,  and  could  repro- 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  25 

duce  it  to  perfection  a  few  hours  later — she  realised  at 
once  that  she  had  come  upon  an  educational  opportunity. 

The  conversation  began  rather  tamely  about  the 
beauties  of  the  Palace  and  of  the  weather. 

"There's  such  an  ugly  cathedral ;  have  you  been  inside 
it?"  Mrs.  Elkington  remarked.  "But  I'm  sure  you 
haven't.  You  spent  all  your  time  at  the  Trianons,  didn't 
you?  So  charming,  I  always  think,  especially  the  Petit 
Trianon." 

Mrs.  Elkington  poured  out  conversation  to  casual 
strangers  like  tepid  water  from  a  jug.  She  belonged  to 
the  school  which  holds  that  it  doesn't  matter  what  you 
say,  so  long  as  you  say  enough  of  it.  Miss  Elkington  was 
more  inclined  to  mind  her  "p's"  and  "q's',"  and  her 
intense  interest  in  the  things  about  her  made  her  more 
anxious  to  avoid  platitudes.  All  the  ardour  of  her  nature, 
inexperienced  in  love  or  child-bearing,  had  been  poured 
into  artistic  appreciations;  and  what  people  were  apt  to 
describe  with  a  sneer  as  her  "refinement"  was  the  most 
genuine  thing  about  her. 

"I  adore  Versailles,"  she  remarked,  smiling  at  Maggie, 
a  little  flush  of  enthusiasm  making  her  face  quite  hand- 
some. "I  think  that  view  from  the  terrace — looking 
across  the  fountains  down  to  the  lake,  between  the  two 
woods — must  be  one  of  the  loveliest  effects  in  landscape 
gardening  in  the  whole  world.  It  is  certainly  finer  than 
anything  at  Fontainebleau  or  St.  Germain.  Have  you 
read  Henri  de  Regnier's  book,  'La  Cite  des  Eaux'?"  she 
asked.  Miss  Elkington  blushed  prettily  as  if  caught  in 
a  display  of  erudition,  when  she  noticed  Maggie's  rather 
strained  smile  and  shake  of  the  head.  She  was  one  of 
these  gentle  souls  who,  when  they  make  tactless  remarks, 
suffer  more  acutely  than  their  victims. 

"I  can  hardly  read  a  word  of  French,"  Maggie  re- 


26  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

plied,  "though  I  talk  it  fairly  well.  I  ought  really  to 
know  French  perfectly,  seeing  that  I  am  a  French-Cana- 
dian !"  This  flash  of  inspiration  had  come  to  her  in  her 
rage  at  noticing  a  flicker  of  annoyance  which  had  crossed 
Van  Bergen's  face.  How  she  cursed  herself  now  for 
having  let  him  kiss  her  on  the  boat,  the  day  Mrs.  Falken- 
heim  had  told  her  he  was  the  son  of  millionaire  Van  Ber- 
gen, of  the  Great  Southern  Railroad ! 

"My  name  is  really  Cartier,  you  know,"  she  added, 
turning  towards  him.  "I  can't  imagine  why  poppa 
dropped  the  T — I  suppose  for  convenience — but  I  always 
spell  it  in  the  old  way  myself." 

Maggie  noticed  with  delight  that  this  went  down 
splendidly  with  the  Elkingtons.  They  seemed  to  think 
it  "awfully  interesting"  to  be  a  French- Canadian.  Van 
Bergen's  smile  once  more  played  on  unimpaired.  Not  a 
flicker  of  an  eyelid  showed  if  he  remembered  the  pioneer 
who  gives  his  name  to  one  of  the  largest  squares  in  Mon- 
treal. She  found  her  irritation  with  him  in  the  highest 
degree  stimulating.  It  occurred  to  her  to  contrive,  be- 
fore Van  Bergen  knew  where  he  was,  to  make  him  offer 
to  drive  the  Elkingtons  back  to  Paris.  While  the  big 
touring  car  hurried  them  smoothly  back  to  their  hotel, 
Maggie  talked  to  the  mother  and  daughter  almost  exclu- 
sively. She  felt  herself  conveying  a  successful  snub  to 
Van  Bergen.  She  would  let  him  see  that  a  Canadian 
girl  was  not  to  be  treated  "like  that"  in  the  presence  of 
people  like  the  Elkingtons — just  because  she  had  once  let 
him  kiss  her.  She  reflected  on  the  dangers  attending  too 
rapid  embraces,  and  registered  a  vow  that  her  kisses 
should  be  much  more  expensive  in  future.  She  wasn't 
going  to  cheapen  herself  any  more  to  rats  like  Van  Ber- 
gen! 

"Here  we  are!     It  has  been  jolly,"  Miss  Elkington 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  27 

remarked,  as  the  car  drew  up  at  their  modest  hotel  in  the 
fJtoile  district.    She  smiled  charmingly  at  Maggie.    "We 
must  meet  again,"  she  said.    "Do  look  us  up  one  after- 
noon.   We  are  here  for  another  fortnight  before  we  go 
back  to  London !"    She  turned  to  Van  Bergen  and  joined 
her  thanks  to  her  mother's  for  his  amiability  in  bringing 
them  back  in  his  car,  but  not  before  Van  Bergen  had 
overheard  her  farewell  to  Maggie.    His  mask-like  smile, 
however,   successfully  concealed  his  feelings,  and  when 
he  dropped  Maggie  at  the  "Capitol"  in  time  for  dinner 
she  got,  as  she  expressed  it,  "no  change"  out  of  him  for 
her  curt  dismissal.    He  went  on  smiling,  merry  and  bright, 
a  live  proposition,  alert  and  efficient  as  the  hero  of  a 
story  in  a  smart  American  magazine.    Maggie  felt  once 
more  that  she  had  bumped  her  head  against  finesse.    It 
wasn't  all  plain  sailing,  this  social  stunt.    A  lovely  girl 
didn't  just  have  to  show  herself  to  create  a  "iu.-ror,"  as 
she  had  always  imagined.    There  were  a  thousand  things 
to  learn.     She  would  evidently  have  to  use  her  brains 
as  well  as  her  beauty.    She  could  not  understand  how  it 
was  that  Van  Bergen  did  not  lay  himself  at  her  feet  to 
be  trampled  on.     She  had  always  understood  that  men 
were  just  animals  where  women  were  concerned — that  a 
pretty  woman  could  do  what  she  liked  with  a  man,  whose 
raging  passions  made  him  a  mere  puppet  in  her  hands. 
She  had  met  men  who  would  have  given  her  anything 
they  possessed  for  a  kiss.    She  had  let  Van  Bergen  hold 
her  in  his  arms  in  a  secluded  corner  on  the  boat  and  kiss 
her  very  prettily — on  the  day  she  heard  about  his  millions 
— but  he  hadn't  seemed  specially  unnerved  by  any  raging 
passions.    There  was  too  much  of  the  perfect  little  gen- 
tleman about  him  to  please  her!     She  went  up  to  her 
room  meditating  a  revenge  which  should  be  complete  and 
ghastly. 


28  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

After  dinner  that  night,  sitting  in  the  palm  court  of 
the  "Capitol"  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Falkenheim,  she  sprang 
on  them  the  interesting  announcement  of  her  Gallic  origin 
which  had  been  such  a  success  with  the  Elkingtons.  She 
felt  the  warm  black  eye  of  Israel  turned  on  her  in  a  glance 
of  mingled  humour,  admiration,  and  malice  as  she  naively 
explained  her  intention  of  reverting  to  "the  old  spelling." 
Mrs.  Falkenheim  said,  in  her  motherly  way,  that  she 
thought  it  was  "very  nice"  and  that  she  would  have  to 
remember  it  in  future  in  making  introductions.  Israel 
said  nothing  for  a  moment.  Then  he  remarked,  as  though 
it  had  no  reference  to  her  revelation:  "I  once  had  an 
old  friend  called  Solomon.  One  day  he  discovered  that 
his  father  had  made  a  mistake  about  their  name.  It 
wasn't  Solomon  at  all:  it  was  Sheridan-Villiers.  So  he 
had  to  go  off  to  get  some  new  calling  cards  printed,  he, 
he,  he!"  He  leant  across  and  patted  Maggie's  hand 
with  a  gesture  which  made  her  bubble  with  annoyance. 

"My  name  really  is  Cartier,"  she  replied,  haughtily, 
and  since  she  was  not  to  be  thwarted  by  ridicule,  Cartier 
it  remained. 

As  the  days  slipped  by  towards  the  date  fixed  for  their 
removal  from  Paris  to  London,  Maggie  worked  very  hard 
to  consolidate  her  position  with  Mrs.  Falkenheim,  but 
always  she  felt  Israel's  mocking  black  eye  upon  her.  Did 
he  suspect  that  she  was  no  heiress,  but  only  a  little  Scotch 
grocer's  daughter?  Had  someone  told  him  about  the 
Price  Street  shop?  She  had  always  heard  that  Jews 
were  consumed  with  suspicion  and  no  more  to  be  trusted 
with  private  letters  than  she  was,  and  that  they  had 
"wonderful  ways  of  finding  out."  But  how  could  he 
have  found  out  except  by  guessing,  unless  perhaps  she 
had  betrayed  herself  out  of  her  own  mouth?  It  was  true 
he  was  always  asking  her  little  tactful  questions  about 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  29 

her  childhood  or  about  her  investments,  which  taxed  her 
powers  of  lying  to  the  utmost.  The  vague  sense  of 
insecurity  which  Israel  aroused  in  her  mind  made  her 
indefatigable  in  regard  to  the  Elkingtons.  She  had  never 
been  liked  by  the  other  girls  in  Montreal,  whom  she 
thought  of  as  being,  without  exception,  "jealous  cats," 
but  Rachel  Elkington  seemed  to  have  taken  a  real  fancy 
to  her.  Curiously  enough,  Maggie  discovered  that  Le- 
vett,  the  playwright,  whom  Mr.  Falkenheim  had  intro- 
duced to  her  at  the  picture  shop,  was  a  great  friend  of 
the  Elkingtons,  and  she  met  him  once  or  twice  at  their 
hotel. 

Maggie  was  sharp  enough  to  see  how  much  she  might 
profitably  learn  from  this  gentle,  cultivated  woman  with 
her  unfaltering  instinct  for  clothes ;  and  by  adopting  an 
attitude  of  innocence  and  ignorance  and  willingness  to 
have  "her  mind  broadened,"  she  struck  a  chord  which 
vibrated  sympathetically  in  Rachel  Elkington's  bosom. 
Rachel  Elkington  was  typical  of  the  nice  Englishwoman 
nearing  thirty  who  does  not  anticipate  being  asked  in 
marriage.  Her  unsatisfied  but  unadmitted  hunger  for 
the  commonplace  experiences  of  her  sex  had  given  her  a 
special  type  of  intellectual  ardour.  She  longed  to  show 
other  women  how  much  there  was  in  the  world  which  they 
didn't  realise,  to  make  their  outlook  less  narrow  and  do- 
mestic, to  lead  them  to  the  magic  casements  of  culture. 
It  had  not  yet  been  borne  in  on  her  that  these  casements 
open  on  the  foam  of  perilous  seas;  the  perils,  for  her, 
were  yet  to  come,  and  her  eagerness  was  untroubled.  It 
gave  her  keen  pleasure  to  talk  to  Maggie  about  books  and 
pictures  and  the  beautiful  things  of  life ;  about  the  won- 
ders of  Italy  and  of  Spain;  about  music,  dancing,  and 
the  play.  She  took  Maggie  with  her  to  the  Opera  Comi- 
que  to  hear  Pellcas  et  Melisande,  explaining  the  story  so 


30  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

that  sKe  could  follow  the  intention  of  the  music,  and  lent 
her  novels  and  books  of  poetry.  Maggie's  crude  and 
sometimes  vapid  comments  sounded  like  a  delicious  Co- 
lonial naivete  to  Miss  Elkington's  ultra- refined  ear.  She 
visualised  Maggie  as  some  beautiful  wild  flower ;  even  her 
odd  Canadian  drawl  seemed  to  her  delightful  in  its  fresh- 
ness. When  Maggie  announced  in  accents  of  quiet  pride 
that  she  was  going  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  summer  in 
Bayswater,  Rachel  was  genuinely  pleased  at  the  thought 
of  renewing  so  stimulating  an  acquaintance.  "How  lucky," 
she  replied,  adding  with  a  faint  blush,  "we  really  live 
almost  in  Bayswater  too.  Our  house  is  in  Hyde  Park 
Street,  number  218.  You  must  be  sure  to  write  to  me 
when  you  reach  London,  and  let  us  see  something  of 
you."  Maggie  promised  gladly  that  she  would  write.  She 
was  rather  abashed,  however,  to  note  that  the  word 
Bayswater  did  not  seem  to  have  quite  the  magic  which 
she  had  anticipated. 

"By  the  way,  Miss  Cartier,"  Rachel  went  on,  "I  have 
so  often  wondered  what  your  Christian  name  is,  I  am 
sure  you  must  have  a  pretty  name,  you  are  so  lovely !" 
Miss  Elkington  blushed  again  when  she  said  "you  are 
so  lovely,"  as  though  she  had  caught  herself  being  in- 
advertently emotional. 

"My  own  name  is  Rachel,"  she  added,  before  Maggie 
could  reply.  "Do  call  me  by  it !  It  is  so  much  less  formal 
than  Miss  Elkington!" 

Maggie  paused  for  a  moment,  in  some  embarrassment. 
She  had  long  thought  her  name  anything  but  high  class, 
and  did  not  at  all  relish  the  notion  of  owning  up  to 
Maggie.  Hastily  casting  about  in  her  mind  for  a  sub- 
stitute, she  remembered  the  name  of  the  heroine  of  a 
smart  "society"  novel  which  Mrs.  Falkenheim  had  re- 
cently lent  her — Margot  de  Montmorency.  Margot! 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  31 

That  would  do  splendidly;  it  had  chic,  it  was  Parisian! 
The  Margot  in  the  novel  had  been  a  daughter  of  one 
of  the  smartest  families  of  the  French  nobility,  so  that 
it  must  be  all  right.  Rachel  glanced  at  her  with  an  en- 
couraging smile  when  she  hesitated. 

"I  was  baptized  Margaret,"  she  said  at  last,  "but 
everyone  at  home  always  called  me  Margot.  You  see," 
she  added,  "we  are  really  of  French  extraction." 

"Yes,  I  remember  you  told  me  so  at  Versailles.  T 
should  love  to  have  some  French  blood  in  my  veins," 
said  Rachel  with  enthusiasm.  "I  must  call  you  Margot 
too,  may  I?"  Maggie  assured  her  that  she  might.  She 
was  overjoyed  at  her  happy  inspiration,  and  enchanted 
with  the  new  name  she  had  given  herself.  This  renam- 
ing seemed  to  have  a  fateful  significance — to  mark  defi- 
nitely a  fresh  stage  in  her  career.  The  life  and  adven- 
tures of  Miss  Margot  Cartier — ah,  they  would  make 
a  very  different  story  from  that  of  Maggie  Carter's 
squalid  upward  struggles! 


CHAPTER  III 

AFTER  the  departure  of  the  Elkingtons,  Paris  seemed 
to  Margot  to  become  suddenly  very  much  duller.  She 
missed  Rachel,  and  grew  impatient  to  follow  her  new 
friend  to  London  and  to  start  out  on  the  great  campaign 
to  which  she  had  so  long  looked  forward.  One  of  the 
results  of  her  friendship  with  the  Elkingtons  had  been 
a  subtle  change  which  she  had  noticed  in  Van  Bergen's 
manner  toward  her.  She/  thought  now  that  she  detected 
in  him  less  hesitation,  the  absence  of  a  display  of  tact 
designed  to  conceal  a  consciousness  of  social  difference, 
even  a  certain  amorous  warmth.  The  more  he  showed  a 
"coming-on"  disposition,  however,  the  more  she  snubbed 
him,  until  at  last  he  too  left  Paris.  She  hoped  he  left 
it  suitably  mortified.  In  any  case,  before  he  went — with 
characteristic  neatness — he  sent  her  a  bouquet  of  roses 
to  her  room,  with  a  note  expressing  his  thanks  for  the 
jolly  time  she  had  given  him  and  the  hope  that  they 
might  meet  again  in  London  or  New  York.  The  note 
seemed  to  her  to  be  the  symbol  of  victory,  and  her  self- 
confidence  increased  in  consequence.  The  sting  of  old 
blunders  was  wiped  out  when  she  saw  the  roses  which 
made  her  bedroom  fragrant.  The  mistakes  of  the  past 
three  weeks  had  indeed  been  innumerable,  but  she  had 
known  how  to  profit  by  almost  all  of  them. 

On  the  night  before  her  departure  for  London,  as 
Mrs.  Falkenheim's  maid  was  brushing  out  her  pale  gold 
hair  for  her,  while  she  was  making  her  toilette  before 
dinner,  she  looked  at  herself  earnestly  in  the  glass  and 
took  stock  of  her  position.  She  reviewed  the  events  of 

32 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  33 

the  past  month.  What  a  thrilling,  wonderful  month  it 
had  been!  Half  a  lifetime  seemed  to  have  been  com- 
pressed into  it.  As  she  gazed  at  her  own  reflection,  she 
could  not  but  admit  that  never  in  her  life  before  had 
she  looked  so  lovely.  The  fire  in  her  china-blue  eyes 
seemed  to  vivify  and  brighten  her  whole  being.  "Well, 
so  far  so  good!"  she  thought,  with  a  thrill  of  satisfac- 
tion. 

Although  she  hardly  realised  it,  she  had  indeed  picked 
up  far  more  in  the  last  few  hectic  weeks  than  many  girls 
ever  learn  in  a  year  of  genteel  "finishing"  at  Neuilly. 
What  years  it  seemed  since  she  had  left  Canada.  It  was 
only  thirty-five  days!  She  had  crossed  a  great  gulf 
during  that  time,  over  which  there  could  never  be  any 
returning.  She  could  only  go  forward,  and  go  forward 
she  would  or  perish  in  the  attempt. 

Godfrey  Levett  joined  them  at  dinner,  but  went  al- 
most immediately  afterwards,  so  that  she  did  not  get 
much  chance  of  talking  to  him  beyond  making  a  few 
commonplace  remarks  about  the  Elkingtons.  He  looked, 
however,  as  if  he  would  have  liked  an  opportunity  of 
chatting  with  her  alone.  His  expression  was  curiously 
demure,  and  she  thought  he  seemed  at  moments  faintly 
embarrassed.  But  somewhere  in  his  eyes  there  lurked  a 
mingled  look  of  mockery  and  shrewdness,  which  made 
her  keep  on  wondering  what  he  thought  of  her.  She 
rather  wished  she  had  not  snubbed  him  so  severely  that 
day  in  the  Rue  Laffitte. 

When  Levett  had  gone,  Mrs.  Falkenheim  retired  to 
bed,  pleading  a  headache  and  the  fatigues  of  the  jour- 
ney on  the  coming  day.  Mr.  Falkenheim  took  Margot 
with  him  to  listen  to  the  band  in  the  palm  court  of  the 
hotel,  and  they  sat  and  drank  their  coffee  in  cane  arm- 
chairs, with  a  round,  glass-topped  table  between  them. 


34  M ARGOT'S  'PROGRESS 

They  were  well  placed  to  observe  the  cosmopolitan  crowd 
of  guests.  Margot  hated  to  be  anywhere  where  she 
could  not  "watch  the  people."  It  was  the  continuous 
and  absorbing  occupation  of  her  waking  hours. 

Israel  smoked  his  cigar  in  comfortable  contemplation 
and  watched  her. 

"Well,  Miss  Carter,"  he  said  at  last,  "so  you  will 
open  in  London  to-morrow!" 

"You  talk  as  if  I  was  an  actress,"  she  remarked, 
not  quite  concealing  her  irritation. 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear,  not  an  actress.     .... 

"An  adventuress  then!" 

Israel  smiled.  "We  all  have  our  little  adventures. 
My  life  has  been  full  of  them.  And  you,  Miss  Carter,  I 
think  you  will  have  your  adventures,  too !" 

Margot  was  undecided  for  a  moment  whether  to  be 
haughty  or  frank.  Distrust  of  her  ability  to  carry  things 
off  with  a  consistently  high  hand  eventually  decided  her 
to  be  frank.  The  atmosphere  of  suspense  was  getting 
on  her  nerves.  If  she  made  a  clean  breast  of  it  she  felt 
certain  of  getting  him  on  her  side. 

"Of  course,  I  want  to  get  on,"  she  remarked,  smiling 
at  him. 

"To  marry?" 

"No,  not  just  to  marry.  To  marry  rather  .... 
rather  importantly!" 

"That  should  be  easy  enough  for  you.  You  are  indeed 
lovely :  and  men  are  still  men.  It  is  all  the  better,  also, 
that  you  have  money  of  your  own.  My  wife  and  I  will 
find  you  a  crowd  of  'important'  husbands.  You  shall 
take  your  choice.  If  you  want  a  lord,  why  it  is  easy  if 
your  fortune  is  sufficient!"  He  patted  her  hand  af- 
fectionately. 

"My  fortune  is  sufficient  to  keep  me  alive  for  nearly 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  35 

one  year — if  I'm  careful,"  she  remarked,  quietly.  "So 
now  you  know.  I  never  said  1  was  an  heiress,  did  I? 
I've  got  somewhere  about  £500!"  Having  burnt  her 
boats  by  blurting  out  the  truth,  Margot  suffered  an 
agony  of  suspense.  The  old  man's  jaw  dropped,  and 
he  turned  on  her  a  prolonged  stare.  "Oh,  what  a  fool 
I  am,"  she  thought,  "I've  gone  and  ruined  everything! 
He'll  offer  me  a  job  as  his  wife's  companion  or  as  gov- 
erness to  somebody's  children.  But  I  won't  be  a  com- 
panion— I  won't — I  won't !" 

Her  lips  pressed  themselves  more  closely  together  as 
if  to  hold  in  a  torrent  of  words,  while  her  eyes  searched 
in  the  silence  the  wrinkled  face  in  front  of  her,  from 
which  the  two  little  eyes  shone  like  black  beads.  She 
knew  instinctively  that  she  had  cheapened  herself  with 
him.  She  realised  that  he  would  regard  her  acceptance 
of  his  wife's  present  of  a  ball  frock  and  of  their  hospi- 
tality as  dishonest,  now  that  she  had  told  him  how  much 
she  really  needed  them.  How  absurd  and  unreasonable 
he  was!  If  she  had  been  a  rich  girl  all  these  things 
would  have  been  wasted  on  her. 

"You  are  a  plucky  little  soul,  and  no  mistake,"  the 
old  man  eventually  remarked.  "I'll  keep  your  secret — 
for  a  time  at  all  events.  You  shan't  have  to  break  into 
your  nest-egg  for  another  six  months,  I  promise  you 
that.  After  then,  we'll  see." 

The  singular  insolence  of  his  tone — that  racial  inso- 
lence behind  which  the  Jew  too  often  conceals  his  nat- 
ural kindliness — stung  her  like  a  whip  and  blinded  her 
to  the  real  generosity  of  what  he  was  saying.  She  felt 
inclined  to  get  up  and  call  him  a  blamed  "Sheeny,"  any 
way,  who  ought  to  be  proud  that  a  Christian  girl  should 
condescend  to  stay  with  him  in  his  rotten  house.  His 
sudden  lack  of  respect  for  her,  just  because  he  had 


36  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

heard  she  was  only  "worth"  ^£500,  was  exasperating. 
She  felt  inclined  to  tweak  his  nose  and  tell  him  she 
wasn't  going  to  be  sneered  at  by  any  "Ikey  Mo,"  just  as 
if  she  were  a  suit  of  old  clothes  he  was  trying  to  cheap- 
en !  All  her  lurid  vocabulary  of  gutter  invective  rose  to 
her  lips,  but  got  no  further.  She  saw  too  clearly  on  which 
side  her  bread  was  buttered,  for  that.  With  heav- 
ing bosom  and  eyes  lit  up  with  the  violence  of  her  re- 
pressed emotions,  she  thanked  him  demurely.  "You're 
very  kind,  Mr.  Falkenheim,"  she  said.  "It's  real  good 
of  you  and  Mrs.  Falkenheim  to  give  me  a  helping  hand. 
My  only  other  friends  in  England  live  quietly  in  the 
country  in  Dorsetshire,  and  wouldn't  have  been  able 
to  give  me  such  a  fine  start.  I  shall  always  be  grate- 
ful." 

"Oh,  you're  worth  backing  all  right,"  said  Israel,  with 
an  admiration  that  was  become  familiarity.  "And  you 
will  be  able  to  patronise  the  old  man  yet,  or  I'm  a  Dutch- 
man !  But  don't  you  say  anything  about  all  this  to  Mrs. 
Falkenheim.  You  shall  stay  with  us  till  the  end  of 
November.  Then  we'll  see!  A  bargain's  a  bargain, 
mind,"  he  reminded  her,  as  they  went  up  in  the  lift  to 
their  rooms.  "I  don't  promise  anything  beyond  six 
months !" 

"Six  months,"  she  muttered  to  herself  after  she  had 
got  into  bed.  "I'll  make  the  pair  of  them  ashamed  of 
their  damned  bargains  within  six  weeks." 

She  fell  asleep  dreaming  of  London  the  mighty,  Lon- 
don the  hub  of  the  whole  world,  the  earthly  paradise, 
the  city  of  the  powerful  and  the  rich. 


, 


CHAPTER  IV 

IT  had  always  been  a  habit  with  Margot,  for  as  long 
as  she  could  remember,  to  spend  half  an  hour  before 
getting  up  in  the  morning  in  pretending  that  she  was  a 
princess  with  an  elegant  maid  waiting  to  conduct  her 
to  a  perfumed  bath.  Afterward  the  maid  would  help 
her  on  with  her  silk  stockings  and  her  luxurious  clothes, 
and  when  dressed  she  would  descend  the  marble  stair- 
case and  "sail"  into  the  waiting  car  for  a  little  exercise 
before  luncheon.  Lying  thoroughly  warm  in  her  nar- 
row iron  bedstead  in  her  ugly  little  room  in  Price  Street, 
with  her  face  buried  under  the  bedclothes,  which  shut 
out  the  dismal  surroundings  of  reality,  she  could  fancy 
herself  "almost  anybody,"  Oh,  those  half-hours  of 
warmth  and  drowsy  happiness!  She  would  deliberately 
prepare  for  them  by  setting  her  alarm  clock  half  an 
hour  earlier  than  necessary,  so  that  she  could  lie  in  bed 
without  having  to  get  up  too  soon  and  revel  in  her  day- 
dreams. But  however  long  she  gave  herself,  her  enjoy- 
ment was  always  eventually  terminated  by  the  raucous 
voice  of  Andrew  Carter  calling  out,  "Now,  Maggie,  you 
lazy  slut.  Ain't  you  going  to  get  the  breakfast?  It's 
gone  half-past  seven!"  Then  there  followed  horrid  mo- 
ments with  the  tin  basin  and  water- jug,  which  stood  on 
the  "dot  and  carry"  washstand,  underneath  the  picture 
of  Sir  Wilfrid  Laurier  attached  to  the  wall  by  tin-tacks 
— ablutions  in  no  way  resembling  the  dreamed-o£  per- 
fumed bath.  After  the  hasty  washing  came  the  still 
hastier  pulling  on  of  stockings  with  holes  in  them,  a 
"doing"  of  the  hair  admitted  to  be  temporary,  and  the 

37 


38  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

bundling  on  of  skirt  and  blouse,  followed  by  a  dash 
below  to  the  kitchen  behind  the  shop,  to  fry  bacon  and 
make  tea  for  her  detested  parent.  Mr.  Carter  was 
never  able  to  sympathise  with  his  daughter's  patent 
discontent.  He  attributed  it — correctly  enough,  as  it 
happened — to  the  fact  that  she  was  "just  like  her  mother 
over  again." 

When  Margot  first  woke  up  in  her  bedroom  at  the 
"Capitol,"  it  seemed  as  though  the  most  extravagant 
day-dreams  of  her  girlhood  had  been  realised.  She  no 
longer  had  to  bury  herself  under  coarse  and  scratchy 
bedclothes  and  "pretend" ;  she  had  but  to  open  her  eyes 
and  look  around  her.  By  her  side  was  a  bell  which  she 
had  only  to  touch  to  summon  a  servant  who  would  get 
her  anything  she  asked  for ;  and  when  her  bath  had  been 
prepared  she  would  only  have  to  drop  into  it  some  of  the 
sels  de  bain  she  had  bought  at  Houbigants'  for  it  to  be 
perfumed  as  exquisitely  as  the  most  fastidious  princess 
could  desire.  She  found  difficulty  in  imagining  greater 
luxury  than  this.  Rich  as  she  knew  the  Falkenheims 
to  be,  it  did  not  occur  to  her  that  their  house  would  hold 
any  surprises.  And  Rachel  Elkington  had  somehow  tak- 
en the  bloom  even  off  Bayswater.  Margot  began  to  have 
vague  suspicions  about  Bayswater. 

In  so  far  as  her  doubts  concerned  the  comfort  of 
the  house  in  Richbourne  Terrace,  the  first  few  minutes 
following  her  arrival  set  them  completely  at  rest,  for  her 
acute  instinct  showed  her  at  once  the  difference  between 
its  quiet  splendours  and  the  rather  gaudy  sumptuousness 
of  the  hotel.  By  the  time  she  reached  the  house  she 
had  been  prepared  for  splendours.  Never  would  she 
forget  her  first  fleeting  vision  of  London  as  the  train 
crossed  the  bridge  into  Charing  Cross.  It  was  indeed 
an  unforgettable  view,  with  the  Houses  of  Parliament, 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  39 

the  Cecil  and  Savoy  Hotels,  and  a  whole  line  of  unknown, 
splendid  buildings  rising  proudly  from  the  barge-strewn 
river,  in  the  wonderful  May  sunshine!  The  Falken- 
heims'  big,  smooth- running  car  met  them  at  the  station ; 
a  liveried  footman  busied  himself  with  their  luggage, 
and  in  a  few  moments  they  were  being  whirled  through 
the  strange,  exciting  London  streets.  Margot  never  for- 
got her  first  arrival  at  the  house  in  Richbourne  Terrace. 
One  of  the  real  English  butlers  of  whom  she  had  read 
in  so  many  paper-covered  novels  opened  the  door  for 
them,  ushering  them  into  a  great  hall  paved  with  black 
and  white  marble,  covered  here  and  there  by  rugs.  From 
the  middle  of  this  hall  a  broad  marble  staircase,  with  a 
kind  of  wrought  steel  baluster,  led  magnificently  up  to 
the  drawing-room. 

When  Margot  saw  the  room  on  the  second  floor  which 
was  to  be  her  bedroom  during  her  visit,  she  uttered  a 
little  "Oh !"  of  delight,  and  longed  for  the  moment  when 
she  could  be  alone  in  it. 

They  had  crossed  from  Boulogne  by  the  morning  boat, 
so  that  after  some  tea  in  a  small  sitting-room,  which 
Mrs.  Falkenheim  called  the  boudoir,  Maggie  wras  invited 
to  go  upstairs  and  have  a  bath  and  "lie  down"  in  her 
room  before  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner. 

Such  a  bath  it  was;  all  of  silver  and  white  enamel, 
with  taps  that  shot  water  at  you  from  directions  whence 
you  least  expected  it ! 

After  the  bath  she  felt  much  too  refreshed  and  excited 
to  "lie  down,"  but  shut  and  locked  the  door  on  herself — 
with  the  instinct  of  the  cat  which  hates  being  observed 
when  lapping  up  its  milk — and  silently  wallowed  in  the 
enchantment  of  her  room.  It  was  too  lovely !  The  bed 
was  broad  and  very  low,  of  black  lacquer,  incrusted  with 
gleaming  mother-of-pearl.  A  bedspread  of  rose  satin  lay 


40  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

over  it,  and  the  lace-edged  sheet  of  snowy  lawn  was  part- 
ly turned  back,  disclosing  a  large,  frilled  pillow.  All  the 
rest  of  the  furniture  was  in  the  same  black  lacquer;  the 
walls  of  the  room  were  covered  with  plain  panelling, 
enamelled  white;  the  thick  pile  carpet  was  of  a  mellow 
shade  of  vieux-rose.  The  outer  window  curtains  were  of 
black  silk  lightened  by  curious  splashes  of  rose,  the  inner 
ones  of  the  filmiest  white  muslin.  On  the  chimney-piece 
stood  a  black  Louis  Quatorze  clock,  surmounted  by  a 
bronze  group  of  gods  and  goddesses  disporting  on  a  cloud. 
The  pendulum  was  a  brass  sun  with  rays,  suggesting  the 
glory  of  le  roi  soleil,  and  the  dial  of  the  clock  had  been 
adorned  with  painted  amorets.  The  faint,  mellow  sound 
of  its  ticking — after  the  jarring  click-click  of  the  cheap 
alarum  clock  she  had  been  used  to  in  her  childhood — was 
like  sweet  music  to  Margot.  It  made  her  feel  a  princess 
at  last,  just  as  every  step  she  took  on  the  carpet  reminded 
her,  by  its  contrast  with  the  worn  and  chilly  oil- 
cloth in  her  room  at  Price  Street,  of  the  success  she  had 
achieved  already. 

By  one  side  of  her  bed,  standing  on  the  little  round 
lacquer  table,  was  a  wooden  case  holding  a  row  of  new 
novels.  Just  above  her  head,  when  she  was  lying  in  bed, 
was  arranged  an  electric  lamp  with  a  heavy  rose  shade. 
The  switch  was  fixed  at  the  side  of  the  bed  so  that  she 
could  turn  it  on  or  off  with  the  minimum  of  effort.  In 
another  part  of  the  room  stood  a  bookcase  full  of  volumes 
bound  in  red  leather,  exquisitely  tooled  and  adorned  on 
either  side  with  a  coronet  surmounting  an  initial.  The 
edges  of  the  books  were  heavily  gilded,  and  their  mo- 
rocco bindings  smelt  oddly  sumptuous.  Margot  was  a 
little  disappointed  on  opening  them  to  find  they  were  in 
French,  but  her  disappointment  was  mitigated  by  the  dis- 
covery that  they  were  all  illustrated  with  engravings  of 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  41 

beautifully  attired  French  marquises  being  made  love  to 
by  elegant  gentlemen  on  bended  knee ;  of  gods  dallying  in 
a  shameless  manner  with  naked  goddesses  in  a  world  of 
rose-leaves  and  dim  arbours;  or  of  shepherds  and  shep- 
herdesses neglecting  to  look  after  flocks  of  unreal  sheep. 
One  of  the  pictures — a  girl  yielding  to  an  importunate 
lover — was  entitled  "Au  mains,  soyez  discret."  Margot 
liked  the  pictures  of  the  marquises  best,  and  studied  with 
attention  the  elaborate  details  of  their  frocks,  which  look- 
ed as  if  they  must  be  more  extravagant  than  anything  she 
had  seen  in  Paris,  at  Premet  or  Paquin  or  Cheruit. 

The  room  was  certainly  one  to  wake  up  in!  Margot 
imagined  how  the  maid  would  come  in,  in  the  morning, 
and  draw  aside  the  black  silk  curtains  without  making  a 
sound,  letting  in  a  shaft  of  morning  sunlight.  Then  the 
little  tray  with  the  early  tea  on  it  would  be  put  down  on 
the  table  by  the  side  of  the  novels!  Her  reverie  was 
broken  into  by  the  discreet  knock  of  Mrs.  Falkenheim's 
maid,  Marie,  who  had  come  to  help  her  dress  for  dinner. 

Dinner  on  that  wonderful  first  evening  in  the  big 
Bayswater  house  was  an  event  which,  like  her  first  vision 
of  London,  was  to  remain  engraved  on  Margot's  memory. 
Nothing  that  was  to  come  later  ever  blotted  out  that 
thrill  of  having  arrived,  of  being  in  the  great  and  dream- 
ed-of  world.  The  butler  and  footman  who  waited  on 
them  were  ever  so  much  more  splendid  than  the  waiters 
in  the  Paris  restaurants,  and  even  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Falken- 
heim  seemed  quite  different  and  more  imposing  against  a 
background  of  their  own  dark-panelled  dining-room. 

After  dinner  Mrs.  Falkenheim  and  Margot  went  and 
sat  in  the  great  drawing-room  on  the  first  floor. 

"I  don't  suppose  you'll  want  to  do  anything  very 
exciting  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Falkenheim  in  her  fat  voice. 
"I  daresay  you'll  be  quite  willing  to  go  to  bed  early,  like 


42 

me.  I  always  go  to  bed  at  ten  when  I'm  at  home  and 
we  haven't  got  people  in  the  house.  I  like  plenty  of 
rest!"  Mrs.  Falkenheim  settled  herself  in  her  usual 
armchair  by  the  window  and  took  up  her  embroidery, 
prepared  for  Margot  to  carry  on  a  gentle  conversation. 
Israel  came  upstairs  when  the  coffee  was  brought  in, 
and  the  three  of  them  relapsed  for  a  while  into  a  digestive 
silence,  occupied  with  their  own  thoughts. 

The  evening  breeze  wafted  into  the  room  the  peculiar 
odour  of  geraniums,  from  the  big  window-boxes  which 
made  all  the  outside  of  the  house  resplendent.  And  it 
brought  with  it  also  the  sound  of  dance  music  from  one 
or  two  of  the  houses  in  the  terrace — faint,  but  disturbing 
in  its  appeal.  Margot  was  passionately  fond  of  dancrhg, 
and  the  sound  thrilled  her  with  a  longing  to  begin  her 
campaign  without  wasting  a  moment. 

"That's  Solly  Abraham  giving  a  dance  for  his  Rebecca, 
I  expect,"  said  Mrs.  Falkenheim,  when  the  music  became 
for  a  moment  more  distinct. 

Mrs.  Falkenheim  relapsed  once  more  into  silence.  She 
was  a  woman  of  immense  silences.  She  would  sit  for 
hours  awake,  pleasantly  ruminating  on  mysterious 
subjects.  No  one  ever  knew  what  it  was  she  thought 
about  during  her  hours  of  armchair  meditation  When 
anything  happened  to  prod  her  into  speech  she  would  go 
jogging  along  quite  cheerfully.  Solly's  dance  came  back 
into  her  head  after  a  prolonged  pause  and  set  her  going. 
It  reminded  her  of  her  own  dead  offspring  and  thus  of 
the  maternal  activities  which  Margot's  presence  would 
make  necessary.  "We  could  have  gone  to  Solly's  dance, 
my  dear,  but  I  thought  you  would  be  too  tired  after  your 
journey!  I  must  talk  to  some  friends  on  the  telephone 
in  the  morning  and  see  what  we  can  arrange;  and,  of 
course,  we  must  give  a  dance  for  you  here.  I  must  look 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  43 

at  the  newspapers  to  find  a  good  day.  Unfortunately, 
June  is  always  crowded.  One  has  to  send  out  cards 
quite  a  month  in  advance." 

Margot's  interest  in  the  dance  in  the  house  near  by 
waned  when  she  discovered  that  it  was  being  given  by 
one  of  her  host's  co-religionists,  and  her  heart  sank  with 
the  sudden  fear  that  the  Falkenheims  might  not  know 
any  Christians. 

"I  suppose  you  have  heaps  of  society  friends,  Mrs. 
Falkenheim,"  she  said  in  a  wistful  and  demure  tone 
which  even  Mrs.  Falkenheim,  who  could  be  shrewd 
enough  when  she  took  the  trouble,  could  see  was  intend- 
ed to  draw  her  out. 

"Oh,  not  friends,  my  dear.  Most  of  my  friends  are 
people  like  ourselves.  We  all  live  round  about  here,  you 
know.  I  have  friends  in  almost  every  house  in  Rich- 
bourne  Terrace.  And  we  aren't  society  people  at  all. 
Just  quiet  folk.  Of  course,  we  do  know  the  other  sort 
as  well,  and  you  shall  have  your  good  time,  I  promise 
you  that.  Israel  was  doing  society  about  eight  years  ago 
in  connection  with  some  companies  he  was  interested  in — 
weren't  you,  dear?"  she  said,  turning  to  her  husband, 
"and  we've  still  just  kept  in  with  it  all." 

"That  was  when  I  was  opening  the  Connaught  Gallery 
in  Bond  Street,  with  the  Largilliere  Exhibition,"  said 
Israel.  "I  must  say  it  cost  me  a  lotta  money,  a  great 
lotta  money.  And  it  wasn't  worth  it.  I  could  have 
floated  my  Largillieres  just  as  well  by  having  the 
journalists  to  dinner  here  and  giving  'em  a  good  cigar 
and  as  much  champagne  as  they  could  carry !  That 
would  have  been  every  bit  as  effective." 

"What  on  earth  is  a  Largilliere,  Mr.  Falkenheim?" 
Margot  asked. 

"Come  with  me,  my  dear,"  replied  Israel,  "and  I'll 


44  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

show  you."  He  gave  her  his  cold,  bony  hand,  helping 
her  to  rise  from  among  the  cushions  of  her  armchair, 
where  she  lay  like  some  exquisite  doll,  bewilderingly 
pretty,  her  frock  of  violet-blue  charmeuse  vivid  against 
the  light  chintz.  He  led  her  with  tottering  footsteps 
across  the  slippery  parquet  floor  to  where  an  electric  light 
switch  was  fixed  in  the  wall  behind  the  black  Steinway 
grand,  polished  and  gleaming.  The  turning  on  of  the 
switch  suffused  all  the  pictures  on  the  wall  with  an  even 
radiance,  by  a  contrivance  in  the  frames.  "That's  a 
Largilliere,  just  in  front  of  you,"  said  Israel,  pointing  to 
the  portrait  of  a  middle-aged  beauty  of  the  reign  of 
Louis  XIV.  The  other  pictures  were  mostly  by  the  less- 
known  French  painters  of  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century;  a  collection  of  its  kind  almost  unsurpassed  by 
any  in  London  with  the  exception  of  the  one  at  Hertford 
House.  All  the  charm  and  finesse  of  Parisian  life  in  the 
last  days  before  the  Revolution  were  evoked  by  these 
intimate  and  frivolous  "boudoir"  scenes;  these  "Offres 
Seduisantes"  and  "Repentirs  Tardifs" ;  these  portraits  of 
elegant  and  arch  beauties  in  adorable  frocks — by  such 
painters  as  Moreau  le  jeune,  Gabriel  St.  Aubin,  Roslin, 
Levreince,  and  Baudouin.  Israel  had  also  two  of  Char- 
din's  more  domestic  interiors,  which  he  showed  to  Mar- 
got  with  pride.  He  confessed  to  a  dislike  of  indifferent 
Fetes  Galantes.  He  didn't  want  any  bad  Paters  or  poor 
imitations  of  Lancret  in  his  house — though  he  didn't 
mind  selling  them  if  fools  wanted  to  buy  them.  He 
liked  the  men  and  women  of  these  Louis  XV  painters 
more  than  their  gods  and  goddesses,  or  masqueraders ! 
Margot  was  amazed  to  find  this  ugly  old  man  showing 
almost  as  technical  a  knowledge  of  frocks  and  fabrics 
and  of  the  thousand-and-one  adjuncts  to  feminine  beauty 
on  which  the  French  painters  of  the  eighteenth  century 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  45 

lavished  so  much  of  their  attention,  as  any  professional 
couturier  could  possess. 

"Fashion  is  a  curious  thing,"  said  Israel  reflectively. 
"With  the  exception  of  that  gouache  by  Lavreince  which 
I  bought  at  the  Muhlbacher  sale  fifteen  years  ago  and 
had  to  pay  a  lot  for,  I  bought  nearly  all  of  these,  and  some 
others  as  well,  for  a  mere  song,  from  Lord  Dawlish.  His 
ancestor,  who  was  an  Ambassador  in  Paris  about  one 
hundred  and  thirty  years  ago,  had  made  the  collection. 
The  present  peer  is  a  temperance  reformer,  you  know,  and 
very  sanctimonious,  so  he  was  glad  to  get  rid  of  them.  He 
never  forgave  me,  however,  when  he  saw  the  price  at 
which  I  re-sold  the  poorest  of  the  Largillieres — after  the 
boom.  .  .  ."  The  old  man  chuckled  at  the  recollection  of 
past  triumphs  in  which  he  took  almost  as  much  aesthetic 
pleasure  as  in  the  works  of  art  themselves. 

"So  despised  'society'  did  that  for  you?"  Margot 
observed  with  a  touch  of  acid  in  her  tone.  She  suspected 
a  "sour  grapes"  element  in  Israel's  contempt  for  her 
deities. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  admitted.  "The  world  is  full  of  fools. 
Besides,  my  dear,  I  went  in  for  it  rather  thoroughly.  I 
didn't  only  get  the  two  or  three  countesses  you  always 
see  advertised,  who've  been  such  a  drug  on  the  market 
for  the  past  twenty  years.  Those  sort  of  women  don't 
really  matter.  They  would  put  their  husbands  on  the 
board  of  any  company  that  ever  was  floated — for  a  con- 
sideration, and  the  consideration  gets  less  every  year. 
Oh,  no !  I  got  quite  a  good  duke  who  knew  very  nearly 
as  much  about  Ming  as  I  know  myself;  and  several 
of  the  untitled  people,  who  are  so  much  more  important 
still." 

"How  can  they  be  more  important  if  they  haven't  got 
titles?"  asked  Margot  naively. 


46  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

"My  dear,"  laughed  Israel,  "I  can  see  you  have  a  lot 
to  learn — but  don't  be  in  a  hurry  to  learn  it  all  too 
quickly,"  he  said,  patting  her  hand.  "You  know,  there's 
six  months  yet,"  he  whispered  with  clumsy  humour  as 
they  resumed  their  places  at  the  feet  of  Mrs.  Falkenheim. 
That  massive  and  good-natured  woman,  during  their 
examination  of  the  pictures,  had  apparently  been  ru- 
minating on  the  subject  of  dances  to  which  she  could 
take  Margot.  She  had  rung  the  bell,  and  the  elderly 
butler,  whom  Israel  had  also  acquired  from  Lord  Daw- 
lish,  made  a  noiseless  entry.  His  melancholy  face  and 
bent  shoulders  expressed  a  weary  resignation. 

.  .  ."Fraser,"  said  Mrs.  Falkenheim.  "Fetch  me  the 
Times  for  last  Monday."  She  fixed  her  gold-rimmed 
pince-nez  on  a  nose  in  every  way  adequate  for  their 
support,  and,  taking  the  paper  from  the  servant's  hands, 
began  slowly  to  read  through  the  list  of  dances.  Rather 
more  than  half  of  them  she  ticked  off  with  a  pencil. 
"Mrs.  Condoe  Aaronson  at  the  Ritz,  June  fourth.  That's 
Jim  Aaronson's  wife.  How  she  is  getting  on,  that 
woman !  You  can  see  to  that,  can't  you,  Israel  ?  Then 
Lady  Barchester  on  the  sixth" — husband  and  wife  ex- 
changed a  look  of  comprehension  over  Lady  Barchester ; 
there  were  reasons  why  she  should  be  accommodating — 
"and  Mrs.  Frank  Hattersley  at  Surrey  House  on  the 
eighth.  .  .  ." 

To  Margot's  great  delight  it  seemed  that  they  were 
going  to  find  her  dances  for  every  other  night  during  the 
next  two  months.  She  reflected  that  she  would  have  to 
break  deeply  into  her  nest-egg,  for  clothes.  One  ball 
frock  would  not  go  very  far,  lovely  though  it  was.  Her 
experiences  in  Paris  acting  on  her  highly  trained  intelli- 
gence had  already  taught  her  a  great  deal  about  what 
should  be  worn  in  London,  and  in  this  respect  at  least 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  47 

she  was  already  far  in  advance  of  the  average  English 
girl  of  her  age. 

Mrs.  Falkenheim,  having  completed  her  study  of  the 
social  arrangements  announced  in  the  Times,  gathered 
up  her  embroidery,  putting  it  back  into  a  large  cardboard 
box  covered  with  a  pattern  of  red  and  blue  roses,  and 
prepared  for  bed. 

Margot  walked  to  the  open  window  for  a  moment,  be- 
fore accompanying  her.  She  stepped  out  on  to  the  bal- 
cony which  was  fringed  with  long  boxes  of  geraniums, 
whose  scent  rose  up  into  the  warm  evening  air.  On 
either  side  stretched  the  impressive  expanse  of  Rich- 
bourne  Terrace — tall  houses,  brightly  lighted,  standing 
back  on  either  side  behind  a  row  of  trees.  The  throbbing 
beat  of  the  waltzes  and  rags  now  came  quite  distinctly  to 
her  ears.  She  could  almost  look  into  the  nearer  of  the 
ballrooms  from  which  the  music  was  issuing.  It  was  in 
a  house  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  terrace,  and  through 
the  trees  she  could  see  couples  revolving  around  the  richly 
lighted  room  and  others  coming  out  on  to  the  balcony  and 
fanning  themselves.  A  strip  of  red  carpet  was  laid  from 
the  front  door  of  the  house,  across  the  pavement  to  the 
road,  and  people  seemed  to  be  arriving  continuously.  Ap- 
parently in  London  the  guests  started  out  to  dances  at 
eleven  o'clock,  and  this  thrilled  her  with  the  triumphant 
realisation  that  she  was  no  longer  in  "the  provinces,"  or — 
worse  still — "the  Colonies."  She  was  in  the  very  hub  of 
the  social  world.  To  think  of  it ! 

Over  her  head  the  dark  blue  sky  was  a  blaze  of  stars ; 
the  air  seemed  to  thrill  with  suggestions  of  brilliance  and 
excitement,  with  the  electricity  of  early  summer.  And 
above  the  noise  of  the  violins  and  the  hum  and  throb  of 
the  motors  hurrying  up  and  down  the  road  there  came  to 
her  ears  a  deep,  continuous,  but  distant  roar  like  the  roar 


48  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

of  the  sea — the  sound  of  London's  mighty  heart-beats. 
She  stood  silent  and  thrilled,  but  like  Louise  in  the  opera , 
she  could  have  thrown  wide  her  arms  and  shouted  out, 
"London,  London!"  as  if  apostrophising  some  god  to 
whom  she  was  offering  her  body  as  a  sacrifice  and  her 
soul  as  a  possession.  A  shooting  star  swept  across  the 
heavens  as  she  looked  upwards,  dying  in  a  swift  blaze  of 
glory,  and  she  wondered  whether  this  could  be  an  omen. 

She  turned  and  saw  that  her  hostess  was  watching  her 
with  eyes  dewy  and  full  of  kindliness,  and  re-entered 
the  drawing-room  to  say  good-night  to  Israel  before  giv- 
ing her  arm  for  Mrs.  Falkenheim  to  lean  upon.  When 
they  were  parting  for  the  night  on  the  landing  above,  and 
after  Mrs.  Falkenheim  had  expressed  the  wish  that  Mar- 
got  had  everything  she  wanted,  the  girl  suddenly  put  her 
arms  around  the  old  woman's  neck  and  kissed  her  on  both 
cheeks.  "I  guess  you're  the  greatest  dear  that  ever 
lived !"  she  cried  with  flushed  cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes. 
This  embrace  made  Mrs.  Falkenheim  feel  still  more 
emotional,  and  a  spasm  of  affection  for  the  motherless 
beauty  whom  she  had  taken  under  her  wing  shot  through 
her,  as  she  went  into  her  room. 


CHAPTER  V 

ONE  of  the  first  things  which  Margot  did  on  her  ar- 
rival in  London  was  to  send  a  note  to  Rachel  Elkington 
asking  her  to  come  to  tea.  She  wrote  the  letter  in  her 
room  early  one  morning,  after  she  had  drunk  her  first 
cup  of  tea  and  the  black  silk  curtains  had  been  drawn  to 
let  in  a  ray  of  sunlight  as  joyous  as  her  own  youth.  She 
had  jumped  out  of  bed  and  run  in  her  nightgown  to  throw 
the  window  wide  open,  to  look  at  the  fresh  greenery  of 
the  trees  in  the  terrace,  at  the  blue  sky  overhead — at 
London.  She  had  to  be  up  and  doing,  though  she  was 
really  a  little  ashamed  to  find  that  her  childhood  habits 
of  early  rising  were  so  ingrained.  To  avoid  making  a 
premature  descent  to  the  bath-room  she  sat  writing 
letters,  the  first  to  Rachel  Elkington,  the  second  to  her 
"friends  in  England,"  the  Hendersons.  Although  Adam 
Henderson  really  existed,  she  had  not  seen  him  for  such 
a  long  time  that  he  was  now  largely  an  unknown  quan- 
tity. Two  years  ago,  not  long  after  the  wonder-week  with 
Jacky  Bruce  which  marked  the  beginning  of  her  senti- 
mental experience,  she  had  been  wooed  by  this  young 
clergyman,  who  had  come  out  to  see  if  he  had  a  vocation 
for  pastoral  work  in  the  far  Northwest.  He  had  stop- 
ped in  Montreal  on  his  return  journey  to  England  (not 
finding  the  far  Northwest  much  to  his  liking)  and  had 
fallen  in  with  Margot,  who  encouraged  him  because  he 
had  the  same  respect  for. her  "innocence"  which  had  been 
shown  by  Jacky.  Adam  Henderson,  however,  was  a 
Scotsman  of  a  type  not  unlike  her  own  father.  He  took 
the  grocery  store  into  consideration  when  engaged  in  his 

49 


50  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

wooing,  weighed  the  pros  and  cons,  and  finally — though 
overflowing  with  sentimentality — omitted  to  propose.  He 
couldn't  leave  it  at  that,  however,  but,  with  a  not  un- 
common form  of  masculine  vanity,  thought  he  would 
soften  the  blow  to  Margot  by  bestowing  his  friendship  on 
her  and  writing  her  long,  semi-improving  letters.  Less 
than  a  year  ago  he  had  written  to  tell  her  of  his  marriage 
and  how  he  and  his  wife  had  started  a  school  in  Dorset 
for  backward  and  delicate  children.  Margot  was  not 
wrong  in  concluding,  from  this  piece  of  information,  that 
the  wife  "had  money."  "Trust  Adam  for  that!"  she 
reflected.  He  ended  his  letter  with  the  fervently  express- 
ed hope  that  if  ever  Margot  came  to  England  she  would 
make  their  house  her  home.  Mrs.  Henderson,  he  added, 
would  be  delighted  to  meet  her. 

It  was  a  cordial  effusion,  but  Margot  knew  her  man; 
heard  him  telling  his  rich  wife  about  a  nice  little  girl,  "not 
quite  our  kind,"  whom  he  had  "treated  rather  shabbily 
out  in  Montreal,  and  nearly  got  entangled  with !"  Very 
well,  she  would  do  the  patronising  before  they  had 
finished.  Meanwhile,  Adam  might  come  in  extremely 
useful — one  never  knew!  She  wrote  him  a  guarded 
letter  on  Mr.  Falkenheim's  heavy  and  opulent-looking 
white  note-paper,  telling  him  of  her  arrival  in  London; 
how  she  would  probably  be  "fearfully  rushed  during  the 
season,  but  would  much  like  to  run  down  to  Dorsetshire 
for  a  long  week-end  to  make  his  wife's  acquaintance  and 
to  see  him  again."  "Two  can  play  at  getting  on 
in  the  world!"  she  reflected  as  she  stuck  down  the  en- 
velope. No  subsequent  success  ever  gave  her  quite 
the  same  amount  of  satisfaction  as  the  writing  of  that 
letter.  .  .  . 

She  went  out  after  breakfast  for  a  walk  in  Kensington 
Gardens  till  Mrs.  Falkenheim  was  ready  to  go  out  in  the 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  51 

car,  and  it  was  not  till  she  had  actually  posted  her  two 
letters  that  it  occured  to  her,  in  a  flash,  that  Adam 
Henderson  might  give  her  away.  She  weighed  the  advan- 
tages and  the  disadvantages  of  telling  him  about  her 
arrival  in  England.  A  presentable  "old  friend"  might 
.be  extremely  useful;  on  the  other  hand,  he  might  upset 
matters  at  a  critical  moment.  On  the  whole,  she  thought 
she  had  done  rightly,  and  that  after  she  had  seen  him  she 
would  be  able  to  rely  on  his  discretion  and  on  his  help. 
"And  if  he  simply  dared  do  me  in,"  she  muttered,  con- 
cluding the  matter,  "I'd  shoot  the  little  blighter !"  Her 
eyes  blazed  as  she  came  to  this  decision.  She  had  just 
entered  the  Park  through  the  gate  by  the  ornamental 
waterworks  which  bring  the  Serpentine  to  an  end. 

"My  dearest  girl!"  said  a  gentle,  familiar  voice. 
"Whose  murder  are  you  plotting,  pray  ?  And  why  didn't 
you  tell  me  you  had  arrived  in  London  ?" 

Margot  looked  up  to  see  Rachel  Elkington  standing 
in  front  of  her,  with  a  lovely  Borzoi  on  a  leash. 

"Why,  Rachel,  this  is  bully !"  she  cried.  "I'd  just  writ- 
ten to  you  to  ask  you  to  come  to  tea  with  us  to-morrow. 
I've  only  been  here  two  days;  and  I've  hardly  seen  any- 
thing of  London  yet.  Say,  it  isn't  really  a  patch  on 
Paris — is  it  ? — except  for  the  nobs'  houses !" 

Rachel  went  into  a  little  peal  of  laughter  at  this  ad- 
mission. "You  enchanting  child,"  she  said,  "you'll  carry 
the  place  by  storm  if  only  you  stay  as  you  are !" 

Margot  suspected  latent  sarcasm,  and  grew  pink.  "You 
will  come  to  see  us  to-morrow,  won't  you?"  she  said  to 
change  the  subject.  "Mr.  Falkenheim  will  enjoy  showing 
off  his  pictures  to  you." 

"Yes,  dearest,"  said  Rachel,  with  obvious  pleasure.  "I 
shall  be  delighted  to  come !"  Margot  felt  a  glow  of  sat- 
isfaction to  see  that,  after  all,  the  Falkenheims,  if  only 


52  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

for  their  belongings — in  spite  of  their  being  Jews  and  of 
their  living  in  the  now  suspect  Bayswater — could  arouse 
this  enthusiasm  on  Rachel's  part.  Rachel  had  the  most 
ingenuous  face.  You  could  always  tell  when  she  meant 
what  she  said,  and  it  was  clear  that  her  expressions  of 
pleasure  at  renewing  her  slight  acquaintance  with  the 
Falkenheims  were  quite  genuine. 

The  two  friends  walked  slowly  round  the  Serpentine 
towards  the  bridge,  busy  taking  up  their  friendship  where 
they  had  left  it  off  in  Paris.  Rachel,  as  before,  was  the 
one  who  made  the  advances,  and  Margot  was  almost 
embarrassed  by  her  affection.  In  Montreal  she  had  never 
had  a  real  girl  friend.  The  other  girls  at  Madame  Val- 
loton's  were  French,  and  she  had  never  been  intimate 
with  any  of  them.  As  for  her  Price  Street  cronies,  they 
merely  observed  an  armed  neutrality,  and  were  ready  to 
scratch  one  another's  eyes  out  on  the  slightest  provoca- 
tion. But  Rachel  seemed  really  to  like  her,  to  admire 
her  looks,  to  wish  her  well.  "You  are  a  lovely  creature, 
Margot,"  she  said  in  an  access  of  enthusiasm  as  they 
stood  still  for  a  moment  to  watch  a  long  line  of  ducks 
sail  toward  them,  one  behind  the  other,  like  tiny  battle- 
ships. "You  will  turn  the  heads  of  half  London  before 
you  have  been  here  a  week !" 

"Oh,  but  I'm  such  a  country  cousin,"  replied  Margot. 
"I've  got  such  heaps  to  learn.  I  expect  you'll  often  laugh 
at  me  yourself !" 

"Darling,"  cried  Rachel,  with  horrified  eyes.  "Please 
don't  say  that.  Why,  you'd  be  done  for  if  you  learnt 
things — completely  spoiled!  For  heaven's  sake,  don't 
get  refined!  I'm  dreadfully  refined,  and  so  are  half  the 
unmarried  girls  in  London.  You  are  like  a  wild  rose 
compared  with  us!" 

The  sun  was  very  warm  for  an  instant  on  the  back 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  53 

of  Margot's  neck  and  down  her  spine.  She  felt  as  if 
she  were  surrounded  by  masses  of  fragrant  rose-leaves. 
Oh,  London  was  just  Heaven,  and  Rachel  was  one  of 
the  angels.  Of  course,  she  was  going  to  be  a  success !  A 
thrill  of  insolent  youth  ran  through  her  veins,  the  china- 
blue  of  her  eyes  became  softened  and  deeper,  her  colour 
a  thought  more  glowing.  Some  little  wisps  of  blonde 
hair  escaped  from  under  her  dark  hat,  and  as  she  stood 
with  red,  moist  lips  parted  in  a  smile,  she  looked  to 
Rachel  like  some  Greek  nymph  dressed  in  Paris  fashions 
— too  radiant  to  be  real. 

"I  do  want  to  be  married,  Rachel,"  Margot  said  in 
one  of  her  flashes  of  eagerness.  "I  want  to  marry  a  rich 
gentleman  and  live  in  London  for  ever  and  ever!" 

Rachel  grew  faintly  pink  for  reasons  which  Margot 
was  unable  to  diagnose,  and  then  smiled  at  her  friend 
with  an  affection  that  was  half-maternal.  "My  dear," 
she  said,  "whoever  he  is,  he  won't  be  worthy  of  you!" 

"Oh,  I'm  ambitious  enough!"  said  Margot.  "You 
mustn't  encourage  me." 

"I  didn't  mean  to,"  said  Rachel  earnestly.  "I  only 
wanted  to  hint  that  'all  isn't  gold  that  glitters,'  and  you 
are  worthy  of  the  true  gold." 

"Yes,"  Margot  agreed,  lost  in  a  day-dream,  "and  dia- 
monds too !" 

Rachel  reflected  in  silence,  for  a  few  moments,  that 
perhaps  just  a  little  refinement  might  be  good  for  her 
dear  one.  If  Margot  could  only  meet  some  really  nice 
men  and  women  and  learn  the  way  they  looked  at  things, 
she  would  eventually  be  so  much  happier.  Petrouschka, 
the  Borzoi,  put  up  his  long,  white  head  with  its  cold, 
black  nose  and  looked  at  her  with  eyes  of  impenetrable 
wisdom — the  very  incarnation  of  distinguished  refine- 
ment. Petrouschka  never  even  nodded  to  terriers,  pugs, 


54  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

"poms"  or  creatures  of  that  kind.  His  wintry  eyes  did 
not  seem  aware  of  their  existence.  Well,  well,  refine- 
ment is  all  very  good  in  its  place,  and  that's  under  the 
surface.  Her  dearest  Margot  had  as  much  refinement 
as  anybody  in  her  beloved  heart,  she  was  convinced  of 
it.  It  only  needed  the  companionship  of  nice  people  to 
bring  it  out.  She  must  collect  some  for  her  to  meet;  it 
would  give  her  an  amusement,  something  to  think  about ! 

"You  must  try  to  keep  a  free  evening  to  come  and 
dine  with  us,"  Rachel  said,  "and  we  could  go  somewhere 
and  dance  afterwards.  I  feel  sure  Mrs.  Falkenheim 
would  look  on  me  as  an  efficient  chaperon ;  I've  got  that 
kind  of  face!" 

Margot  thanked  her  friend  effusively  and  intimated 
that  there  was  nothing  she  would  enjoy  more. 

"I  tell  you  who  I'll  ask  to  meet  you,"  Rachel  went 
on,  "and  that's.  Godfrey  Levett,  the  man  who  wrote  the 
play  that's  on  now  at  the  'First  Avenue.'  You  remember 
meeting  him  in  Paris,  don't  you?" 

Margot  replied  that  she  remembered  him  well,  and 
mentioned  how  he  came  to  dine  with  the  Falkenheims 
on  their  last  evening  at  the  "Capitol." 

"And  didn't  you  think  him  a  dear?"  Rachel  enquired 
enthusiastically.  "He  is  quite  unlike  most  other  men. 
His  points  of  view  are  so  different." 

Margot  replied  guardedly  to  the  effect  that  she  had 
never  had  more  than  a  few  minutes'  consecutive  conver- 
sation with  him,  but  would  much  like  to  meet  him  again ; 
and  wasn't  the  world  a  small  place,  anyway?  "Now  I 
must  beat  it,  Rachel,"  she  added.  "I've  got  to  go  out 
with  Mrs.  Falkenheim." 

"Well,  we  must  certainly  arrange  something,  dearest," 
Rachel  remarked  as  they  stood  for  a  moment  outside 
Lancaster  Gate  before  parting.  "He  is  one  of  the  best 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  55 

dancers  in  London  when  he's  in  the  mood,  and  he'll  keep 
you  amused  during  dinner.  I'll  have  a  talk  to  mother 
and  bring  you  a  choice  of  days  at  tea-time  to-morrow." 
Having  thus  offered  up  her  favourite  man  on  the  altar 
of  friendship,  Rachel  smiled  on  Margot  with  a  rather 
hungry  smile  of  maternal  affection,  and  led  Petrouschka 
back  towards  Hyde  Park  Street. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MARGOT  was  taken  to  her  first  dance  by  Mrs.  Falken- 
heim  on  the  following  evening.  "Some  friends  of  ours 
in  Portland  Place  are  giving  a  little  informal  dance  for 
their  daughter,"  she  explained,  "and  I  expect  you'll  meet 
some  partners  there  whom  you  will  like  to  take  about 
with  you  later  on.  It  is  a  pity  you  don't  know  a  few 
men,  my  dear.  It  is  really  necessary  nowadays  for  a 
girl  to  bring  her  own  men  with  her  to  a  dance."  Margot 
was  secretly  delighted  to  make  her  trial  trip  at  some- 
thing "quite  small."  (It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  give 
her  hostess  any  credit  for  stage  management.)  Rachel, 
who  had  come  to  tea  that  afternoon  and  had  charmed 
the  old  couple,  insisted  on  staying  to  help  Margot  to 
dress.  She  seemed  almost  as  excited  at  her  friend's 
debut  as  if  it  were  her  own.  Even  Margot's  violent  dis- 
trust of  her  own  sex  faded  in  the  warmth  of  affection 
which  came  from  Rachel's  honest  eyes,  and  she  felt  no 
temptation  to  try  to  conceal  her  inexperience. 

"You  know,  I  just  can't  imagine  what  a  London  dance 
is  like,"  she  said,  as  Rachel  brushed  out  her  bright  gold 
hair.  "I  don't  even  know  if  I  can  dance  the  way  you 
do!  So  I  shall  just  have  to  look  all  right."  Margot 
was  on  the  point  of  insisting  on  wearing  the  Doucet 
frock  which  Mrs.  Falkenheim  had  given  her — in  spite 
of  the  combined  remonstrances  of  Mrs.  Falkenheim  and 
Rachel,  and  her  own  appreciation  of  the  folly  of  wast- 
ing it  on  anything  "small."  It  seemed  so  tremendously 
important  that  she  should  make  a  success,  attract  atten« 
tion  from  the  very  first !  Rachel^  suspecting  this  yearn- 

56 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  57 

ing,  remarked  once  more  on  what  a  pity  it  would  be  to 
wear  an  exclusive  model — which  all  the  women  would 
notice — at  a  dance  of  no  particular  importance  in  a  pri- 
vate house. 

Margot  contrived  to  pick  up  as  many  hints  as  pos- 
sible from  Rachel.  She  learnt  from  her  that  there  would 
probably  be  no  programmes,  and  that  if  there  was  a 
crush  her  men  might  have  some  difficulty  in  finding  her 
and  even  in  recognising  her.  "Don't  be  too  hard  on  them, 
darling,"  said  Rachel.  "I  mean  if  the  man  you  ought 
to  dance  with  hangs  about,  obviously  unable  to  remem- 
ber if  it's  you  he's  dancing  with  or  the  lovely  dark  girl 
standing  by  your  side,  swallow  your  mortification  and 
don't  deliberately  look  at  him  as  if  you'd  never  seen  such 
an  object  in  your  life  before.  Heaps  of  girls  do  that; 
it's  so  silly.  They  miss  ever  so  many  dances  by  it,  too." 
Rachel  poured  out  a  gentle  stream  of  good  advice,  min- 
gled with  exclamations  of  ecstatic  admiration,  as  she 
fixed  a  flower  in  Margot's  dress,  instructed  the  maid  to 
make  some  minute  alteration,  or  arranged  the  ornaments 
in  her  hair.  "My  darling,  you're  simply  too  divine !"  she 
said,  kissing  her  lightly  on  the  lips.  "You'll  have  a  suc- 
c&s  fou.  I  shall  ring  you  up  in  the  morning,  about 
luncheon  time,  and  ask  you  all  about  it.  ...  Now 
I  must  fly." 

A  few  minutes  after  Rachel  had  gone — with  her  self- 
confidence  at  its  most  serene — Margot  went  downstairs 
to  dinner,  only  to  be  complimented  afresh  by  Mrs.  Fal- 
kenheim  and  by  Israel. 

The  dance  was  given  by  some  friends  of  Israel's,  the 
Fawsett  Vivians.  Mr.  Reginald  Fawsett  Vivian — who 
for  all  his  high-sounding  name  and  expensive  English 
education  was  much  nearer  to  Frankfort-on-the-Main 
than  Mr.  Falkenheim — was  a  pillar  of  the  Stock  Ex- 


58  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

change.  His  wife — an  imposing  peroxide  blonde,  dark 
under  the  eyes  as  though  she  were  imperfectly  bathed, 
but  with  a  certain  social  volubility  and  aplomb — was 
supposed  to  go  in  for  "authors  and  artists,  and  people  of 
that  sort."  Indeed,  she  fully  realised  that  to  have  her 
ballroom  sprinkled  with  celebrities  and  her  house  beau- 
tifully decorated  were  important  social  assets.  She  strove 
pathetically  to  be  interesting.  It  was  her  tragedy  that 
no  one  could  be  induced  to  think  of  her  as  anything 
but  rich. 

Israel  did  not  put  in  an  appearance  at  the  dance,  and 
Mrs.  Falkenheim  and  her  protegee  went  there  alone  in 
the  heavy,  brightly-lighted  car.  They  reached  the 
Fawsett  Vivians'  house  soon  after  half-past  ten.  A  very 
few  early  couples  were  already  in  the  room,  but  dancing 
had  not  yet  begun.  As  Margot  walked  up  the  broad 
staircase  by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Falkenheim — she  was 
dressed  in  a  frock  of  pale  green  moire  with  a  waistband 
of  cherry-coloured  velvet,  and  wore  her  hair  bound  in 
a  glittering  fillet  and  adorned  with  an  aigrette  which 
seemed  to  symbolise  determination — she  remembered  the 
lines  of  a  song  in  Veronique,  which  she  had  once  heard 
at  Toronto: 

"While  I'm  waiting 
My    heart    is    palpitating!" 

It  was  not  the  palpitation  of  nervousness,  but  a  tremb- 
ling, almost  like  that  of  a  lover,  at  the  achievement  of 
what  had  been  so  long  desired.  She  noticed  that  Mrs. 
Fawsett  Vivian  "My  dear'd"  Mrs.  Falkenheim  very  ef- 
fusively as  they  shook  hands  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
and  that  her  "good  fairy"  was  received  as  a  person  of 
importance.  This  was  satisfactory  to  Margot,  who  was 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  59 

impressed  by  the  crowd's  estimate  of  values.  As  she 
stood  just  inside  the  doorway  of  Mrs.  Vivian's  vast 
drawing-room — while  Mrs.  Falkenheim,  placid  and  as 
much  amused  at  everything  as  a  child  or  a  very  plump 
kitten,  looked  round  for  suitable  young  men — Margot 
examined  the  room  with  what  was  meant  to  be  the  pro- 
fessional eye  of  the  adventuress,  but  was  really  much 
more  like  that  of  Cinderella  at  the  Prince's  party.  The 
band  was  her  chief  disappointment.  It  consisted  of  three 
dirty  little  men  with  banjos,  who  were  probably  niggers, 
and  hadn't  shaved  at  that,  and  a  coffee-coloured  horror 
at  the  piano,  who  looked  as  if  he'd  just  escaped  from  a 
Yankee  gaol.  You  would  expect  to  see  a  band  like  that 
in  a  back  street  out  at  home.  They  were  downright  low, 
she  called  them.  She  sighed  for  the  Pink  Viennese 
"bowered  in  palms"  of  whom  she  had  always  read,  and 
was  glad  she  had  not  insisted  on  wearing  her  Doucet 
frock.  A  young  man  without  any  distinctive  feature  of 
any  kind  whatever  was  introduced  to  her  by  Mrs.  Fal- 
kenheim, and  asked  her  to  dance.  He  bostoned  with  a 
wooden  precision,  asked  her  if  she'd  been  to  Hurling- 
ham  that  afternoon,  discovered  that  she  was  a  French- 
Canadian,  and  remarked  that  that  was  "awfully  jolly." 
Mrs.  Falkenheim  stopped  her  in  the  middle  of  the  dance 
to  introduce  another  man,  whom  the  motherly  old  wom- 
an evidently  considered  of  importance.  Margot  observed 
him  while  they  bowed;  already  she  had  noted  his  air  of 
lazy  magnificence,  and  had  been  irritated  by  it.  Captain 
Vernon  Stokes — for  that  was  the  name  of  the  exquisite — 
had  a  lovely  face  and  a  poor  figure.  The  skin  on  his  fore- 
head was  beautifully  bronzed,  his  cheeks  were  red,  and 
he  had  even  white  teeth.  His  hair  was  a  darkish  brown, 
and  he  had  a  neat  brown  "toothbrush"  moustache. 
Though  tall,  however,  he  was  not  well-proportioned,  and 


6o  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

any  female  connoisseur  of  the  masculine  form  would 
have  found  much  in  his  appearance  to  criticise.  Rachel 
referred  to  him  subsequently  as  "a  typical  flapper's  hero," 
and  even  to  Margot's  unsophisticated  eye  every  gesture 
revealed  the  fact  that  he  was  "eaten  up."  The  part 
Margot  liked  best  about  him  was  the  shape  of  his  head, 
which  seemed  to  her  distinguished.  Otherwise,  he  was 
the  image  of  a  fashionable  riding-master  at  Montreal, 
who  had  once  tried  to  kiss  her  in  the  shop  at  Price  Street. 
Margot  realised,  when  Adonis  first  looked  at  her  through 
half-closed,  sleepy  eyes,  then  opened  them,  smiled,  and 
asked  her  for  the  next  dance  but  one,  that  the  ceillade 
had  been  intended  to  work  havoc.  She  gave  him  the 
dance  willingly;  but  her  blood  was  up,  and  as  she  con- 
tinued bostoning  with  her  partner  she  prepared  herself 
as  if  for  a  contest.  While  she  was  dancing  she  noticed 
on  several  occasions  that  the  eyes  of  her  hostess  were 
fixed  on  her.  Standing  by  Mrs.  Vivian's  side  was  an 
oldish  man  with  a  red  beard,  who  leant  heavily  on  a 
gold-headed  malacca  cane.  Margot  did  not  pay  much 
attention  to  them,  but  when  the  music  stopped  Mrs.  Faw- 
sett  Vivian  came  towards  her  across  the  room.  The 
important-looking  old  man  had  evidently  asked  to  be 
introduced.  He  was  Sir  Carl  Frensen.  Margot  thrilled 
at  the  sound  of  the  well-known  name — the  first  celebrity 
whom  she  had  met  in  the  flesh — and  as  he  bowed  to  her 
she  gave  him  one  of  her  sweetest  smiles.  He  was  cer- 
tainly not  beautiful  to  look  at,  but  there  was  something 
about  him  that  would  have  arrested  attention  anywhere. 
He  had  a  large  fat  face,  and  pale  gold  hair  very  thin  on 
top.  His  red  beard  was  elaborately  cared  for  and 
pointed  in  the  style  of  Henri  IV.,  and  his  reddish-brown 
eyes  were  surrounded  by  red  rims.  It  was  his  eyes  which 
made  one  notice  him ;  they  seemed  to  send  little  ripples 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  61 

of  magnetism  all  over  Margot  as  she  looked  into  them. 
They  were  clever  and  wicked  and  cruel  eyes — the  eyes 
of  a  ineux  satyre  with  a  sense  of  humor. 

"You  must  let  me  give  you  some  supper  later  on,  Miss 
Cartier,  if  you  will,"  he  asked  her.  "As  you  see,  I  am 
much  too  fat  to  dance!"  Margot  smiled  at  him.  "I 
guess  you'd  better  come  and  find  me  when  it's  supper- 
time,"  she  drawled.  "I  don't  rightly  see  how  I'll  know 
otherwise." 

As  Sir  Carl  moved  away,  Margot  was  amazed  to  see 
Mrs.  Falkenheim  staring  at  her  from  the  other  side  of 
the  room  with  an  expression  on  her  face  of  fear,  annoy- 
ance— almost  of  horror.  Margot  could  not  understand 
what  it  could  be  that  had  upset  her  and  shaken  her  out 
of  her  usual  placid  lethargy.  .  .  . 

The  featureless  youth  was  now,  getting  impatient,  and 
insisted  on  leading  her  to  the  balcony  to  cool.  From 
the  open  window,  by  turning  her  back  on  the  street,  she 
could  watch  the  room  slowly  emptying — the  gleam  of 
white  shoulders,  the  flash  of  jewels,  quiver  of  aigrettes, 
and  the  hot  faces  of  men  who  had  just  stopped  dancing. 
She  noticed  Sir  Carl  Frensen  standing  in  the  doorway 
chatting  amiably  to  her  hostess  and  to  the  "daughter," 
but  she  could  not  see  Mrs.  Falkenheim.  .  .  . 

Sir  Carl,  she  thought,  had  a  wonderful  look  of  im- 
portance, but  was  obviously  not  a  bit  English.  He  didn't 
even  talk  English  like  the  other  Englishmen.  Captain 
Stokes  walked  past  in  front  of  her  as  she  was  examining 
Sir  Carl  Frensen,  accompanied  by  a  dazzled  debutante 
who  was  trying  desperately  to  seem  grown-up.  The  de- 
butante had  literary  aspirations,  it  appeared. 

"You  must  send  me  some  of  your  things  to  look  at; 
I  write  a  little  myself,  you  know.  My  hobby  is  observ- 
ing my  fellow  men — and  women,"  she  heard  Captain 


62  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

Stokes  remark  to  the  little  creature  by  his  side,  who 
looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  wide  open. 

"Lord,  he  can  tell  the  tale  all  right,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. "I  shall  have  to  look  out  for  him,  I  can  see !"  And 
then  she  fell  again  to  wondering  why  Mrs.  Falkenheim 
had  looked  at  her  so  strangely  while  Sir  Carl  Frensen 
was  being  introduced  to  her.  Had  she  made  some  fear- 
ful "floater,"  or  was  Sir  Carl  no  better  than  he  should 
be?  She  looked  about  for  Mrs.  Falkenheim,  and  when 
she  discovered  her,  went  over  to  try  to  get  the  problem 
solved.  But  the  old  woman  had  relapsed  into  her  habitual 
calm. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  she  said  to  Margot,  greeting  her  in 
her  usual  fat  and  kindly  voice,  "you  look  lovely.  I'm 
proud  of  you.  I  hope  you  are  enjoying  yourself!  But 
1  was  sorry  to  see  you  talking  to  Sir  Carl  Frensen,  dear. 
He  is  not  the  sort  of  man  it  will  do  you  any  good  to  see 
too  much  of.  You  can't  be  too  careful.  It  was  very 
stupid  of  Mrs.  Vivian  to  introduce  him  without  consult- 
ing me."  Mrs.  Falkenheim  saw  she  was  arousing  Mar- 
got's  interest,  and  stopped.  "I  should  cut  his  dance  if  I 
were  you,"  she  added. 

Captain  Stokes  came  and  claimed  Margot  for  the  next 
dance  before  she  could  reply.  The  unshaven  "niggers" 
had  already  started  one  of  the  newest  rags,  and  as  they 
moved  into  the  room  Margot  wondered  what  she  should 
do  when  Sir  Carl  came  to  take  her  into  supper.  Surely 
it  would  be  impossible  to  avoid  him;  besides,  she  knew 
now  that  she  did  not  want  to  avoid  him.  Mrs.  Falken- 
heim's  words  had  scarcely  produced  the  effect  intended. 

Like  many  Canadians,  Margot  excelled  in  the  rag, 
and  allowed  Captain  Stokes  to  initiate  her  into  all  sorts 
of  "walks"  and  "trots"  and  other  variations,  which  she 
knew  backwards.  From  the  halting  but  determined  way 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  63 

in  which  the  other  girls  in  the  room  were  attempting 
them,  she  realised  that  they  must  be  the  rage  in  London, 
and  her  self-confidence  increased  accordingly.  From  the 
respect  which  this  "nut"  had  for  her  dancing,  she  real- 
ised in  a  flash  that  her  Canadian  background  must  be 
an  asset.  In  some  way  it  gave  her  chic.  .  .  . 

After  the  dance,  Captain  Stokes  found  her  a  comfort- 
able chair  in  a  secluded  corner  of  an  upper  landing,  and 
turned  on  his  companion  the  combined  radiance  of  his 
teeth  and  eyes  and  moustache.  Margot  was  titillated  by 
them  to  the  full,  but  to  an  eye  trained  to  pick  out  in  an 
instant  the  customers  who  will  pay  and  those  who  won't 
there  was  something  vaguely  irritating  about  him.  He 
eyed  her  dreamily  through  long,  beautiful  lashes. 

"By  gad,"  he  said,  "if  there's  one  thing  you  Ameri- 
cans do  understand,  it  is  dancing.  We  should  still  be 
doing  Lancers  and  round  waltzes  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
you." 

"If  you  are  talking  about  me,  I'm  a  Canadian,  thank 
you,"  said  Margot  with  dignity.  Captain  Stokes  thought 
as  much,  and  remarked,  with  one  hand  to  his  moustache, 
that  it  explained  why  she  was  so  nice.  "What  do  you 
think  of  us?"  he  went  on. 

Margot  explained  that  she  thought  London  was  just 
lovely,  but  she  hadn't  been  to  many  dances  yet.  Did 
she  like  London  dances?  "Not  much.  Everyone  really 
looks  rather  bored,  or  else  on  the  bink,"  she  said,  "in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  they  make  such  a  pretence  of  en- 
joying themselves  and  get  so  sticky  doing  rags.  It's 
the  girls  who  look  the  most  bored.  And  there  seem  to 
be  a  lot  too  many  useless  young  men  filling  up  the  door- 
ways." 

"They  look  in  for  a  little  supper,  late.  It  makes  some- 
thing to  do,  you  know."  This  lofty  patronage  on  the 


64  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

part  of  the  jeunesse  dor6e  was  vividly  reflected  in  Cap- 
tain Stokes'  own  attitude.  He  seemed,  indeed,  half  in- 
clined to  apologise  for  his  presence  at  the  Fawsett  Vi- 
vians'. 

"Englishmen  always  seem  to  think  it's  awfully  good 
of  them  to  come,"  Margot  remarked  acidly.  "But  I 
know  if  /  gave  a  dance  I'd  take  care  to  ask  only  men 
who  had  something  to  them.  Not  born-tireds,  who  lean 
up  against  doors." 

"Oh,  they  aren't  all  asked,  you  know,"  said  Stokes, 
laughing. 

"Then  I'd  get  a  chucker-out,"  Margot  retorted,  "to 
assist  the  butler." 

"You  could,  by  George !"  he  said,  with  a  quick  flash  of 
admiration. 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  ask  you,  anyway,"  snapped  Margot. 
"Conceited  ass,"  she  whispered,  under  her  breath.  Her 
companion  thoroughly  annoyed  her.  The  pink  radiance 
of  his  cheeks  became  a  little  pinker  at  this  unlooked-for 
taking  down.  He  was  a  man  who  throughout  the  whole 
of  his  life  had  been  flattered  and  fawned  on  by  women — 
never  snubbed.  He  regarded  Margot  with  renewed  at- 
tention. Why  wouldn't  she  ask  him  to  her  parties  ?  Was 
it  merely  a  feminine  wile  to  make  him  interested? 

"Would  you  turn  on  the  chucker-out  if  I  came?"  he 
asked  with  a  smile. 

Margot  had  recovered  herself  by  this  time.  "It  de- 
pends how  you  behaved !"  she  said  laughingly.  The  mu- 
sic of  the  next  dance  had  begun,  and  as  they  walked 
downstairs  Margot  was  pleased  to  find  her  companion 
distinctly  ruffled.  Her  instinct  told  her  she  had  got  in 
somewhere  on  the  raw. 

The  first  man  she  saw  when  she  got  back  into  the 
ballroom  was  Godfrey  Levett,  who  appeared  to  be  look- 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  65 

ing  for  her.  "Are  you  dancing  this  one  with  anybody?" 
he  asked.  "I  saw  Mrs.  Falkenheim  just  now,  and  she 
told  me  you  were  here."  They  began  to  boston  under 
Stokes'  curious  eye.  Margot  was  overjoyed  to  meet 
someone  she  had  seen  before,  and  treated  Levett  with 
unconscious  warmth.  He  seemed  like  an  old  friend. 

When  the  music  stopped  they  found  a  quiet  corner 
and  compared  notes.  She  was  surprised  at  the  change 
which  had  come  over  Levett.  He  looked  tidy;  his  hair 
was  brushed  flat ;  he  appeared  to  be  enjoying  himself. 
Somehow  he  was  the  very  last  person  she  would  have 
expected  to  meet  at  her  first  London  dance.  She  con- 
nected him  with  pictures,  with  learning,  scholarship,  "the 
intellect."  She  had  imagined  that  people  of  his  kind 
avoided  society  like  the  plague.  But  she  was  very  glad 
he  had  come,  and  she  could  not  help  comparing  him 
at  once  to  the  man  with  whom  she  had  just  been  danc- 
ing. What  a  contrast  they  made!  Stokes  was  the  pa- 
tronising man  of  the  world,  used  to  flattery,  careful  to 
impress  on  people  his  perspicacity  and  experience,  and 
consequently  the  victim  of  anyone  who  chose  to  stab  his 
vanity.  Levett,  however,  allowed  a  diffident  manner  to 
conceal  a  humorous  observation.  Margot  had  felt,  even 
in  the  picture  shop,  that  by  snubbing  him  she  had  only 
excited  his  gentle,  mocking  laughter. 

"I  suppose  you  go  about  a  great  deal,"  she  remarked 
to  him. 

"Not  me!"  said  Levett.  "I'm  much  too  busy;  but  I 
always  enjoy  myself  hugely  when  I  do,  and  I  am  a  con- 
firmed 'bitter-ender.'  I  love  dancing." 

Margot  wondered  which  of  the  girls  in  the  room  had 
brought  him. 

"You  can  imagine  it's  exciting  for  me,"  she  said,  with 
an  inspiration  to  be  confiding.  "This  is  my  first  dance 


66  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

in  London,  and  I've  never  been  to  London  before.  But 
I  expect  Rachel  Elkington  told  you  that.  I  believe  we 
are  going  to  meet  there  at  dinner  one  day  soon." 

Levett  asked  her  if  she  wasn't  disappointed  with  her 
first  experience  of  London  ballrooms.  "While  one  is 
dancing  with  a  good  partner  one  is  perfectly  happy,"  he 
went  on,  "and  of  course  supper  is  one  of  the  most  de- 
licious episodes  in  human  life.  But  if  one  sits  out  a 
dance  in  the  room  itself — it's  depressing.  All  the  per- 
formers are  so  professional.  The  people  who  give  the 
dance  stand  about  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  racked  with 
anxiety  or  shivering  with  boredom.  The  girls,  who  come 
in  droves,  are  most  of  them  'correct'  to  a  point  to  make 
one  scream.  They  go  out  night  after  night,  enjoying 
themselves  less  and  less.  The  only  men  they  meet  and 
like  are  the  men  they  waste  their  time  by  dancing  with, 
and  who  are  bored  stiff  with  them.  What  annoys  me 
particularly  about  the  young  things,"  he  continued,  "is 
that  they  will  drink  soda-water  with  their  supper,  and 
want  to  hurry  away  before  one  has  had  a  mouthful." 

"I  guess  you're  real  greedy !"  said  Margot  in  a  disap- 
proving voice. 

"Shocking!"  Levett  admitted.  "I  just  love  a  well- 
cooked  quail!  I  go  to  dances  later  and  later  in  order 
to  shorten  the  time  of  anxious  waiting.  I'm  really  no 
good  at  all  without  my  quail.  When  you  are  a  great 
London  hostess,  mind  you  remember  that  about  me !  Mr. 
Levett  must  have  his  quail !" 

"What  makes  you  think  I  shall  ever  be  a  great  London 
hostess?"  asked  Margot. 

"Somehow,  I  fancy  that's  what  you'd  like  to  be,  isn't 
it?"  said  Levett. 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  think  people  get  what  they  want  more  often 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  67 

than  not.  What  is  so  terribly  difficult  is  to  know  precise- 
ly what  one  does  want." 

"Well,  I've  always  known  that,"  said  Margot. 

"Then  you'll  always  continue  to  get  it !  I  feel  the  first 
tremulous  thrills  of  approaching  supper,"  he  went  on. 
"We  had  better  hurry  down,  so  that  the  supreme  mo- 
ment may  find  us  in  a  good  strategic  position." 

"Well,  I  call  you  just  a  pig,"  said  Margot,  laughing. 
"Out  in  Montreal,  when  a  gentleman  is  talking  to  a  young 
lady,  he  does  not  think  about  supper  at  all !" 

"Oh,  then  I  expect  the  girl  does !" 

They  parted  thoroughly  amused  with  one  another. 
Margot  followed  him  with  her  eyes  and  watched  him 
go  up  to  a  girl — dressed  in  a  very  daring  green  frock — 
with  black  eyes  and  a  dead-white,  heavily-powdered  face, 
and  carry  her  off  with  him. 

"He's  got  an  affair  with  that  woman,"  she  said  to  her- 
self ;  she  divined  it  instinctively. 

Well,  now  was  the  moment  when  she  must  decide 
whether  she  should  cut  Sir  Carl  Frensen  to  please  Mrs. 
F'alkenheim.  She  would  have  liked  to  please  Mrs.  Fal- 
kenheim,  but  if  she  did,  who  would  take  her  into  sup- 
per ?  She  felt  both  hungry  and  thirsty.  Sir  Carl  Fren- 
sen himself  advanced  at  that  instant  across  the  floor, 
leaning  on  his  heavy  cane,  his  red  eyes  glittering,  and 
settled  the  whole  problem  for  her  out  of  hand.  Mar- 
got  thought  she  had  never  before  seen  anyone  of  his 
age  who  looked  so  amused,  so  interested  in  life,  so  oddly 
expectant  of  some  pleasant  surprise  which  the  future 
might  have  in  store  for  him.  He  offered  Margot  his  arm 
with  mid- Victorian  courtesy.  "This  is  the  moment  to 
which  we  old  men  look  forward,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 
"If  we  can't  dance  we  can  at  least  take  a  charming 
companion  in  to  supper!" 


68  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

"I  think  the  way  you  Englishmen  talk  about  your  sup- 
pers is  perfectly  disgusting,"  laughed  Margot.  "My  part- 
ners seem  to  have  been  waiting  for  nothing  else  all  the 
evening.  .  .  ." 

"That,  of  course,  is  sheer  bad  taste  on  their  part. 
That  anyone  who  could  dance  with  you  could  look  for- 
ward to  doing  anything  else  is  unpardonable !" 

They  found  a  table  in  a  far  corner  of  the  big  panelled 
dining-room,  on  the  walls  of  which,  above  the  panelling, 
hung  portraits  by  fashionable  painters  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Fawsett  Vivian  and  their  two  daughters.  Margot  found 
herself  absorbed  by  her  "dangerous"  companion  and  ab- 
solutely helpless.  She  felt  like  a  baby  in  charge  of  a 
grown-up  person.  He  could  do  whatever  he  liked  with 
her;  could  ask  her  any  number  of  personal  questions, 
if  it  pleased  him  to  do  so,  without  her  being  able  to  make 
the  faintest  protest.  How  his  red  eyes  seemed  to  bulge 
out  of  his  face! 

"So  you've  come  to  conquer  London,  Miss  Cartier," 
he  remarked,  with  a  quick  glance.  "A  reversal  of  Chris- 
topher Columbus's  enterprise!" 

"What  makes  you  say  that?" 

"How  do  you  think  you  will  enjoy  yourself,  after 
you  have  got  what  you  want?" 

"I  haven't  got  it  yet." 

"No,  but  you  will  get  it." 

"Yes.  Another  man  assured  me  I  should,  too,  a  few 
minutes  ago." 

"Somehow  you  don't  lool$  to  me  as  if  you'd  very  eas- 
ily be  satisfied.  You  are  too  intelligent.  Most  of  the 
people  you  see  all  around  you  haven't  any  intelligence 
or  any  enterprise  either — and  very  few  appreciations. 
Let  me  give  you  some  champagne,  and  I  recommend  one 
of  those  quails — they  look  delicious!  ...  I  don't 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  69 

think  you  would  ever  be  satisfied  if  you  were  to  stay  in 
the  corner  of  the  world  you  are  looking  at,  you  know !" 

Margot  looked  round  the  supper- room,  encountering, 
somewhat  to  her  discomfiture,  the  angry  and  perturbed 
eye  of  Mrs.  Falkenheim.  It  was  the  same  look  of  anger 
and  fear  that  she  had  noticed  when  Sir  Carl  was  first 
introduced  to  her.  Mrs.  Falkenheim  was  supping  at  a 
table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  with  Fawsett  Vivian  and 
his  wife  and  one  or  two  other  people.  The  smile  she 
gave  in  reply  to  Margot's  bright  glance  and  nod  was 
strained  and  wintry,  and  Margot  looked  hastily  away  in 
an  effort  to  collect  herself.  At  the  other  tables  were  a 
cheerful  crowd  of  men  and  girls.  Margot  envied  the 
girls  their  look  of  refinement  and  the  chill  touch  of  cor- 
rectness which  made  their  companions  find  them  so  tedi- 
ous. But  they  were  all  so  strange  to  her  that  she  could 
not  separate  one  group  from  another,  or  differentiate 
between  the  various  contrasted  types.  At  present,  too, 
they  had  something  of  the  magnificence  of  the  unknown. 
She  noticed  that  Captain  Stokes  was  having  supper  with 
the  silly  little  girl  with  the  literary  aspirations.  He  was 
distinctly  "smart,"  she  realised  that:  much  smarter  than 
Levett,  for  instance,  who  was  probably  quite  poor  and 
of  no  particular  family.  All  the  girls,  except  the  Jew- 
esses, seemed  to  have  the  same  look  of  chilly,  well-bred 
stupidity.  There  were  a  good  many  Jewesses ;  some 
looked  clever  and  alert,  others — fat,  thick-lipped,  and 
heavy  with  the  boredom  of  neglect — were  palpably  rich. 
Even  to  Margot's  inexperienced  eye  they  were  obviously 
on  the  market,  matrimonially. 

"No,  they  don't  seem  a  very  exciting  lot,  I  must  say," 
Margot  replied,  in:  answer  to  Sir  Carl's  comment.  "But 
I  would  like  to  know  who  Captain  Stokes  is  having  sup- 
per with." 


70  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

"I  think  that's  Ida  Mertoun,  the  youngest  of  Lord 
Mertoun's  daughters.  Stokes  is  rather  a  parti,  you  know. 
His  family  manufactures  something  or  other  in  York- 
shire. His  father,  Sir  William  Stokes,  is  very  well-off, 
and  that  boy  is  the  heir  to  the  baronetcy." 

Margot  reflected,  with  feminine  cattishness,  that  Ida 
wasn't  such  a  fool  as  she  looked.  Little  minx,  with  her 
literary  aspirations! 

"How  did  you  like  Stokes?"  Sir  Carl  Frensen  asked. 
"I  saw  you  dancing  with  him  earlier  in  the  evening." 

"I  thought  him  a  real  dude  and  a  lovely  dancer,  and 
just  about  eaten  up  with  airs !  If  you  ask  me,  I  think  he 
wants  putting  through  the  hoop  a  bit.  .  .  ." 

Sir  Carl  laughed  immoderately  at  her  criticism.  "You 
ought  to  experiment  on  him,  for  his  own  good!  I'm 
sure  it  would  work  miracles." 

"I  did  take  him  down  a  bit,  as  it  was,"  Margot  con- 
fessed. "I  don't  expect  he'll  ask  me  for  any  more  dances 
this  evening." 

"Ah,  nous  verrons!"  said  Sir  Carl.  "Nature  is  a  de- 
vious lady — her  hobby  is  to  attract  by  repulsion,  and  she 
adores  the  conjunction  of  opposites.  I  shan't  stay  to 
watch  if  my  prediction  is  verified,  as  I  always  go  to  bed 
after  supper.  But  you  must  tell  me  all  about  it  the  next 
time  we  meet.  .  .  ." 

Margot  felt  inclined  to  say,  "When  will  that  be?"  she 
was  so  excited  at  the  thought  of  the  interest  in  her 
which  his  remark  seemed  to  suggest,  but  she  remem- 
bered herself  in  time.  The  old  man's  red  eyes  covered 
her  with  a  look  which  made  her  feel  uneasy,  as  though  he 
were  mentally  taking  off  all  her  clothes,  garment  by  gar- 
ment, and  peering  also  into  all  the  secret  places  of  her 
heart.  He  unnerved  her  with  his  impression  of  strength. 
If  he  hadn't  been  Sir  Carl  Frensen,  and  if  she  had  been 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  71 

left  to  herself  instead  of  having  been  warned  against 
him,  she  would  have  avoided  him  as  a  regular  old  beast. 
As  it  was,  thanks  in  part  to  Mrs.  Falkenheim,  she  real- 
ised how  greatly  he  interested  her,  and  how  disappointed 
she  would  be  if  she  never  met  him  again.  The  vivid  ex- 
citement of  her  first  dance  endowed  him,  and  indeed  all 
her  partners,  with  a  peculiar  glamour. 

Mrs.  Falkenheim,  like  Sir  Carl,  was  always  glad  to 
think  of  bed  when  supper  was  over,  but  she  stayed  on 
while  Margot  danced  again  with  Godfrey  Levett  and 
with  one  or  two  other  men  whom  Mrs.  Fawsett  Vivian 
had  introduced  to  her.  When  Margot  rejoined  her  she 
said,  with  a  certain  coldness  of  tone: 

"Now,  Margot  I  think  we'll  be  going  home.  You  will 
only  be  over-tired  in  the  morning  if  we  stay  any  longer." 
Margot  was  on  the  point  of  begging  for  a  few  more 
dances  when  to  her  surprise  and  elation  Captain  Stokes 
came  up  to  her,  beaming,  "Well,"  he  said,  with  his  easy 
confidence,  "are  you  going  to  give  me  another  dance  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  calmly  and  smiled  back.  "I'm 
afraid  we  are  just  going,  so  it  is  impossible."  Mrs.  Fal- 
kenheim glanced  at  her  protegee,  but  noticing  the  look  on 
Margot's  face  she  said  nothing,  and  Stokes  shook  hands 

with  them  stiffly. 

***** 

"Don't  you  like  Captain  Stokes,  dear?"  Mrs.  Fal- 
kenheim asked  in  the  car  as  they  drove  home.  "I  would 
gladly  have  waited  while  you  had  that  dance  with  him !" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  thought  he  was  rather  nice,"  said  Margot ; 
"but  I  was  quite  ready  for  bed.  I  have  enjoyed  it  so 
much!  And  I  do  hope  I  was  all  right.  Was  I?" 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Falkenheim,  "you  were  ever  so 
much  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  room,  and  you  know  it! 
You  were  a  great  success.  The  only  thing  that  disap- 


72  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

pointed  me;  was  to  see  you  having  supper  with  Sir  Carl 
Frensen.     I  do  so  hope — for  your   sake,  particularly, 

Margot — that  you  will  never  see  him  again.     .     .    ." 

***** 

Margot  was  not  too  tired  before  going  to  sleep  to 
turn  to  the  blue  peerage  which  stood,  with  the  Red 
Book,  Bradshaw,  and  various  other  works  of  reference, 
on  her  bedroom  writing  table.  She  looked  up  first  Sir 
Carl  Frensen,  then  Captain  Stokes. 

"Frensen,"  she  read.  "Carl  Frensen,  ist  Bt.  (1899). 
Head  of  the  banking  house  of  Frensen  Brothers.  Son 
of  the  late  Hermann  Frensen  of  Stockholm."  She  dis- 
covered from  the  book  that  he  had  been  twice  married, 
that  he  had  a  villa  at  Cap  Martin,  an  estate  in  Argyll- 
shire, a  house  in  Belgrave  Square,  a  flat  in  Paris  in  the 
Avenue  Hoche,  and  that  he  had  no  children.  So  he  was 
only  some  sort  of  foreign  banker  after  all,  and  probably 
a  Jew  as  well !  She  had  suspected  as  much,  but  the  dis- 
covery, in  view  of  her  developed  social  ambitions,  came 
as  a  disappointment.  Captain  Stokes,  however,  restored 
her  equanimity.  "Stokes,  Bart.  Sir  William  Stokes, 
ist  Bt.  (U.K.  1890),  D.L.,  late  an  M.P."  That  was  his 
father.  There  was  no  reference  to  any  business.  His 
mother  was  "elder  daughter  of  Major-General  Edward 
Marmaduke  Cornewall,  C.B.,  of  Corshom  House,  Cleve- 
don,  Somerset."  He  was  educated  at  Eton  and  Sand- 
hurst, was  a  Captain  in  a  Guards  regiment,  thirty  years 
old  and  unmarried! 

In  spite  of  the  hour,  it  was  some  time  before  Margot 
fell  asleep,  so  highly-strung  were  her  nerves  after  the 
most  exciting  experience  in  her  whole  life.  At  last  she 
sank  into  a  heavy  but  uneasy  slumber,  in  which  constant 
dream-visions  passed  before  her  eyes.  Always  she  saw 
the  gleam  of  white  teeth,  and  the  same  dark  moustache 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  73 

and  soulless,  hazel  eyes ;  always  she  was  in  the  company 
of  Vernon  Stokes,  and  every  time  she  loathed  him  more. 
Through  the  mists  of  her  dream  sometimes  the  red  eyes 
of  Sir  Carl  Frensen  would  appear,  observing  her ;  some- 
times the  suspicious,  cold-black  eyes  of  Israel  Falken- 
heim.  At  last  she  tried  to  escape  from  Stokes;  they 
were  together  at  a  dance  which  seemed  to  go  on  for 
ever  and'  ever  and  ever.  She  was  just  rushing  in  des- 
peration to  the  balcony  to  throw  herself  into  the  street 
when,  with  a  start,  she  woke,  to  discover  that  Marie 
had  brought  her  morning  coffee. 


CHAPTER  VII 

RACHEL  ELKINGTON  was  sitting  one  Sunday  morning 
— about  a  fortnight  after  the  Fawsett  Vivians'  dance — 
in  her  big  music-room  at  the  top  of  the  house  in  Hyde 
Park  Street  when  the  idea  camq  to  her  to  ring  up  God- 
frey Levett.  Her  mother  was  going  out  to  a  luncheon 
party  to  which  she  also  had  been  invited,  but  through 
laziness  she  had  made  some  excuse  not  to  accept.  It 
was  overpoweringly  hot  outside,  deliciously  cool  in  her 
long,  low  room,  with  its  wide  open  windows,  its  bowls 
of  white  flowers,  its  dark  green  carpet  and  hangings  and 
dark  furniture.  Through  the  windows  and  beyond  the 
window-boxes  full  of  white  azaleas  she  could  see  the 
deep  blue  of  the  June  sky.  The  thrum  of  cars  coming 
back  from  the  Park  in  time  for  their  occupants  to  get 
ready  for  luncheon  came  gently  to  her  ears,  making  her 
feel  more  than  ever  lazy.  She  took  up  the  telephone 
receiver  and  rang  up  Levett's  little  house  in  Holland 
Street.  He  was  on  the  point  of  going  out,  but  she  caught 
him  in  the  hall. 

"I  was  just  going  to  walk  off  a  dance  headache  be- 
fore luncheon,"  he  remarked.  She  suggested  that  he 
should  make  his  walk  through  Kensington  Gardens  and 
come  and  share  her  lonely  meal.  "My  headache  has 
already  half  gone  at  the  thought  of  it!"  he  replied.  "I 
shall  be  with  you  in  less  than  an  hour.  I  couldn't  pos- 
sibly have  thought  of  anything  more  delightful;  we'll 
gossip  the  whole  afternoon  and  be  thoroughly  lazy!" 

The  Elkingtons'  house  in  Hyde  Park  Street  was  one 
of  Levett's  most  cherished  haunts.  Everything  about  it 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  75 

pleased  him,  and  every  added  year  of  his  intimacy  with 
it  lent  it  a  new  charm.  He  would  have  been  horribly 
shocked  if  for  any  reason  the  mother  and  daughter  had 
left  their  house  for  another,  had  migrated  to  Mayfair 
or  gone  over  to  the  "right"  side  of  the  Park.  If  Mrs. 
Elkington  had  changed  her  butler,  he  would  have  felt 
it  far  more  than  the  loss  of  one  of  his  own  servants. 
George  had  always  been  there;  he  had  been  Major  El- 
kington's  servant  in  the  army  thirty  years  ago,  and  on 
his  master's  retirement  from  the  service  had  become 
his  body-servant  and  subsequently  his  butler.  When  the 
Major  died  suddenly  of  heart  disease,  George  had  con- 
tinued as  a  kind  of  family  house-dog,  guarding  the  relict 
and  her  daughter  as  if  they  had  been  confided  to  his  safe- 
keeping by  word  of  command.  His  rather  jealous  devo- 
tion and  his  well-bred  impertinences  of  the  old  servant 
delighted  Levett  and  lent  the  house  part  of  its  atmos- 
phere of  permanence,  of  being  remote  from  time  and 
change. 

All  the  furniture  of  the  house  was  restful,  and  there 
were  a  great  number  of  beautiful  things  in  it.  Like 
many  soldiers,  particularly  of  the  older  generation,  Rach- 
el's father  had  been  something  of  a  collector,  and  had 
loved  beautiful  embroideries,  rare  old  Persian  rugs,  sev- 
enteenth-century Dutch  pictures,  and  heavy,  carved  In- 
dian silver.  There  were  some  good  pictures  in  the  house, 
of  the  kind  that  become  dearer  through  familiarity.  A 
lovely  Cuyp — some  cattle  in  the  foreground,  in  the  mid- 
dle distance  a  church  with  some  houses  grouped  around 
it  and  behind,  one  of  his  misty  golden  sunsets — hung  in 
an  eighteenth-century  gilded  frame  over  the  black  oak 
sideboard  in  the  dining-room.  It  made  the  idea  of  lunch- 
eon delicious,  that  Cuyp.  It  was  nice  to  walk  across  the 
Park  thinking  about  it.  On  the  white  distempered  walls, 


76  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

above  the  black  oak  panelling,  hung  two  Hobbemas — 
landscapes  in  the  grand  manner,  all  dark  greens  and 
romance.  The  Hobbemas  hung  rather  incongruously,  on 
either  side  of  an  Elkington  lady,  by  Kneller,  whose  style 
of 'beauty  has  not  yet,  luckily,  returned  to  favour.  Her 
high  bosom  and  protuberant  eyes  resembled  so  many 
other  Kneller  portraits  that  Rachel  had  adduced  the  the- 
ory that  the  painter  could  only  do  one  "pattern"  of  fe- 
male, and  that,  as  he  was  fashionable,  his  sitters  were 
only  too  willing  to  comply.  Hence  this  libellous  "Rachel 
Elkington"  of  two  centuries  back!  The  jokes  about  the 
Kneller  portrait,  the  cool  dark  greens  of  the  Hobbemas, 
the  golden  Cuyp:  how  all  these  things  seemed  to  blend 
together — with  the  old  silver,  the  gleaming  napkins  and 
tablecloth,  the  odd-shaped  knives  and  forks,  the  peculiar- 
ity that  all  the  knives  were  little  ones,  and  the  ever- 
present  flowers — to  make  this  dining-room  delightful ! 

"My  dear  Rachel,"  he  said  when  he  was  shown  into 
her  room,  "I've  been  thinking  about  you  all  the  way 
across  the  Park.  Yours  is  the  only  house  I  know  that's 
cool  as  a  well  in  summer  and  cosy  in  the  winter,  and 
restful  all  the  time!"  He  bent  down  to  drink  in  the 
odour  of  the  white  roses  which  stood  on  the  chimney- 
piece  in  a  great  silver  bowl.  "How  lovely  they  are — 
aren't  they?"  Rachel  was  sitting  at  the  piano,  where 
she  had  been  trying  over  some  new  music  before  his1  ar- 
rival. She  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled.  "You  are  an 
odd  creature,  Godfrey,"  she  said.  "I  do  wish  I  under- 
stood you!  Where  have  you  been  dancing?" 

"The  Farmings.     Betty  sent  me  a  card." 

"Where  was  it?" 

"Ritz.  Fearful  squash,  too.  Your  friend,  the  blonde 
Canadian,  was  very  much  there.  Also  Stokes  in  at- 
tendance." 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  77 

"Do  you  know,  Godfrey,  I  simply  can't  tolerate  that 
man!"  said  Rachel  with  a  burst  of  almost  jealous  irrita- 
tion. "I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  I  always  want  to  be 
rude  to  him!  There  is  a  type  of  heavily  smart  young 
soldier  that  gets  my  dander  up.  It  did  father's,  too! 
He  couldn't  bear  their  particular  brand  of  fashionable 
ill-manners." 

"Stokes  isn't  a  bad  fellow  underneath,  Rachel,"  Le- 
vett  protested.  "His  conceit  makes  him  extra-sensitive 
to  what  people  think  about  him,  that  is  all.  But  who 
wouldn't  be  conceited  who  was  as  handsome  and  as  sat- 
isfactorily placed  as  he  is  ?" 

"Oh,  well,  I  dare  say  I  misjudge  him!"  Rachel  re- 
plied. "It's  a  woman's  privilege  to  be  unjust  and  to  rely 
on  intuitions.  What  annoys  me  about  him  is  his  doc- 
trine that  the  exquisite  should  always  be  as  rude  as  pos- 
sible. There  is  something  subtly  vulgar  in  the  way  he 
is  always  emphasising  his  superiority  to  the  'suburbs/ 
One  would  think  it  was  because  he  detected  a  large 
streak  of  them  in  himself !" 

"He  has  met  his  match  in  Miss  Carder,  anyway!" 
laughed  Godfrey.  Luncheon  was  announced,  and  they 
went  downstairs  into  the  dining-room,  and  the  discussion 
of  Margot  was  postponed  until  they  returned  to  the  mu- 
sic-room to  smoke.  It  was  Rachel  who  re-opened  it. 
"Tell  me,  Godfrey,"  she  said  seriously,  "do  you  like 
Margot,  and  what  do  you  make  of  her?" 

Levett  reflected  before  replying,  and  rested  his  hand 
for  a  moment  on  the  white  neck  of  Petrouschka,  who 
had  risen  from  the  hearthrug,  -yawned,  stretched  himself 
and  walked  over  to  him  to  be  made  a  fuss  of. 

"She  simply  isn't  born  yet,"  he  said  at  last.  "In  her 
own  way  she  is  as  lovely  as  Petrouschka  is  in  his,  but 
she  has  far  less  soul.  She  is  rather  foolishly  selfish,  and 


78  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

has  a  febrile  determination  to  rise  socially,  which  is  tire- 
some. At  present  she  is  mixed  up  with  a  'smart'  crowd 
whom  some  of  us  consider  the  last  word  in  emptiness  and 
vulgarity.  And  I  should  say  she  has  already  begun  to 
look  down  on  the  Falkenheims,  who  are  simple,  kindly 
people  who've  really  got  something  in  them.  And  she's 
lovely — one  of  the  loveliest  young  women  in  London  to- 
day. So  there  you  are !" 

"I  think  you  are  much  too  severe,"  said  Rachel,  up 
in  arms  for  her  friend.  "You  don't  realise  what  a  little 
simpleton  she  is  at  heart,  for  all  her  sophisticated  airs. 
She  is  ever  so  fresh  from  some  Canadian  town  or  other, 
and  between  you  and  me  I  don't  think  she  had  ever 
known  much  about  luxury  or  even  ordinary  comfort  until 
a  month  or  two  ago.  It's  all  so  new,  it's  like  a  fairy 
tale  to  her ;  and  the  darling  tries  ever  so  hard  to  conceal 
how  unfamiliar  it  all  is!" 

"You  should  see  the  way  she  manages  Stokes,"  Levett 
remarked.  "Not  much  fairy-tale  about  that.  She's  too 
knowing  for  words.  She  simply  loathes  him;  anybody 
with  half  an  eye  can  see  it.  On  the  whole  that's  rather 
interesting  of  her:  the  dawn  of  character!  But  then 
that  is  what  I  admire  so  much  about  her.  She  has  plenty 
of  character — or  will  have  before  she  stops  growing; 
and  character  is  all  that  matters  nowadays.  Goodness 
and  badness  is  only  a  question  of  the  fashions.  The 
goodness  of  yesterday  is  the  badness  of  to-day,  and  vice 
versa.  But  character  is  different.  That  is  always  the 
valuable  part  of  everybody,  and  it  will  be  the  saving 
of  Margot  Cartier — you  see !  There  is  no  damned  merit 
about  her,  and  I  should  guess  that  she  is  entirely  devoid 
of  any  moral  sense — but  she  is  burning  with  the  fire  of 
life,  or  else  I'm  blind!" 


MARGOf'S  PROGRESS  79 

"What  sort  of  a  woman  do  you  think  she  will  be- 
come?" Rachel  asked. 

"Who  can  tell?  A  rich  man's  wife  to  start  with,  un- 
less she  makes  some  hideous  blunder.  After  that — who 
knows?  It  depends  partly  on  the  kind  of  rich  man  she 
catches,  partly  on  the  friends  she  makes,  and  on  the  in- 
terests, if  any,  which  she  develops.  You  and  I  know 
how  deadly  uninteresting  the  set  of  people  are  who  do 
the  whole  social  treadmill  and  advertise  the  fact  in  the 
newspapers.  It  is  principally  composed  of  an  unholy  al- 
liance between  the  declasses  and  the  parvenus  \  One 
doesn't  know  which  sort  is  the  more  tedious." 

"Oh!  the  declasses!"  said  Rachel.  "They  make  one 
sick,  and  they  become  far  more  vulgar  than  the  merely 
rich.  There  is  always  hope  that  newly  rich  people  may 
be  intelligent,  and  they  often  have  plenty  of  character. 
They  are  alive,  too,  and  healthy;  they  don't  give  that 
terrible  effect  of  mental  disease  which  their  toadies  do. 
The  'society'  declasse  is  always  on  the  look-out  for  'mo- 
tives' behind  people's  civility  or  hospitality,  always  ob- 
sessed with  the  idea  that  the  people  he  meets  are  'anxious 
to  know  him/  or  are  scheming  to  be  taken  to  tea  with 
his  aunts!" 

"Well,  anyway,"  said  Godfrey,  "your  Margot  has 
joined  the  great  army  of  climbers-up  and  wormers-in; 
she  hasn't  discovered  yet  that  her  very  efforts  impair 
her  chances  of  success.  But,  as  she  has  an  active  mind 
and  plenty  of  intelligence,  and,  above  all,  plenty  of  char- 
acter, she  will  wake  up  one  day  and  realise  the  rotten- 
ness of  the  whole  business." 

"It's  awful,  Godfrey,"  said  Rachel  earnestly,  "this  so- 
cial blight.  Do  you  know,  I  never  thought  of  these  things 
at  all  until  I  met  Margot.  The  poor  darling  seems  to 


8o  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

have  positively  poisoned  the  atmosphere  with  her  social 
valuations.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  I  hope  she  won't  begin  to  kick  away  her  lad- 
ders too  soon,  for  her  sake,"  Godfrey  observed.  "I  have 
a  sort  of  feeling,  though,  that  she  will  soon  begin  to  sneer 
at  the  Falkenheims  because  they  are  Jews  and  live  in 
Bayswater.  If  Israel  had  bought  a  title  instead  of  col- 
lecting pictures,  and  lived  in  a  box  in  Mayfair,  of  course 
she  would  forgive  him !" 

"One  thing  is  evident,  Godfrey,  at  all  events,"  said 
Rachel.  "Margot  has  succeeded  in  interesting  you !  You 
wouldn't  begin  to  get  on  your  hind  legs,  my  dear,  like  a 
Park  orator,  otherwise." 

"Oh,  she  interests  me  right  enough,"  Godfrey  admit- 
ted. "After  all,  I'm  only  carnal  man,  and  she  is  a  god- 
dess— to  look  at.  Of  course  she  interests  me !" 

Rachel  blushed  faintly.  "Well,  can't  we  do  anything? 
I  see  her  often.  I'm  ever  so  fond  of  her.  I've  never 
been  so  fond  of  any  woman  before.  I  try  my  hardest 
to  interest  her  in  the  things  that  are  worth  having  in  life, 
but  she  subordinates  everything  to  this  terrible  getting- 
on." 

"Try  her  with  a  change  of  snobbism,"  suggested  God- 
frey, "like  a  new  diet.  Hint  tactfully  that  all  really  'nut- 
ty' people  go  every  night  to  my  plays,  read  improving 
novels,  and  have  a  passion  for  Russian  music  and  Post- 
Impressionism.  You  know  the  sort  of  thing  I  mean! 
Perhaps  it  may  succeed.  After  all,  better  an  artistic 
snobbinette  than  one  whose  only  literature  is  Burke's 
Peerage." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Rachel  decisively.  "I  don't 
believe  that,  nor  do  you.  Those  things,  though  we 
laugh  at  them,  in  order  not  to  get  on  mental  stilts,  mean 
something  to  both  of  us.  No,  Margot's  only  chance,  as 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  81 

I  told  her  a  fortnight  ago,  is  just  to  be  her  own  dear 
self.  If  she  tried  to  become  'refined'  she  would  be  done 
for.  Of  all  forms  of  snobbism  an  insincere  interest  in 
the  arts  is  the  most  insufferable.  .  .  ." 

"She  might  eventually  develop  a  genuine  interest  in 
art,"  said  Levett,  "if  she  gave  herself  a  chance.  Books, 
pictures,  music,  after  all,  are  acquired  tastes,  largely." 

Rachel  vividly  agreed.  "Why,  yes,  she  might.  But 
all  I  meant  was,  don't,  for  Heaven's  sake,  let  her  like 
them  just  because  she  fancies  it  smart!"  Rachel  shook 
herself,  as  though  she  had  been  examining  something 
physically  repulsive,  and  began  playing  the  second  move- 
ment of  Beethoven's  "Pathetic  Sonata"  to  disinfect  the 
conversational  atmosphere. 

Levett  lay  back  in  his  chair  by  the  open  window  drink- 
ing in  the  music.  The  room  seemed  full  of  the  fresh 
sweetness  of  white  roses,  wrapped  in  an  extreme  peace. 
Through  half -closed  eyes  he  looked  across  at  Rachel 
as  she  sat  playing,  completely  absorbed  in  the  music.  Her 
face  wore  an  oddly  serious  look;  her  dark  eyes  were 
large,  soft  and  yearning;  her  curious  mouth  was  shut 
tightly.  The  long,  white  fingers  which  moved  so  lightly 
and  yet  powerfully  over  the  keyboard  fascinated  Levett, 
and  he  thought  of  Verlaine's  lines  beginning,  "Le  piano 
que  baise  une  main  frele"  Why  was  it  that  Rachel,  of 
whom  he  was  fraternally  so  fond,  was  plainly  the  kind 
of  woman  one  didn't  marry  or  flirt  with?  How  odd  it 
was!  There  was  no  "come  hither"  in  her  eye.  He  di- 
vined that  it  wasn't  her  fault  there  wasn't.  Perhaps  it 
was  just  something  insuperable  in  what  she  might  have 
referred  to  with  a  moue  as  her  "terrible  refinement," 
which  shut  her  off  from  the  usual  experiences.  She  was 
no  prude — that  he  knew — and  there  was  no  subject  under 
the  sun  which  he  could  not  have  discussed  with  her  with 


82  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

perfect  freedom.  What  an  odd  thing,  he  reflected,  is  the 
human  heart.  Which  of  us  really  understands  the  se- 
crets of  another's  actions  or  desires !  He  thought,  as  she 
left  off  playing  Beethoven  and  began  one  of  Chopin's 
mazurkas,  that  she  would  suddenly  grow,  one  day,  into 
one  of  the  most  delightful  old  women  who  ever  existed. 
He  loved  old  women,  and  in  imagination  he  saw  her  with 
white  hair  and  a  rather  sharpened  sense  of  humour,  sit- 
ting in  her  box  at  the  opera  and  looking  a  perfect  darl- 
ing. How  much  happier  she  would  be — when  she  was 
old  enough  not  to  waste  time  in  unfulfilled  hoping  for 
things  undefined. 

Rachel  brought  her  mazurka  brilliantly  to  a  close  and 
smiled  up  at  him,  her  face  relaxing  its  tension.  "We 
shall  soon  have  to  go  down  into  the  drawing-room,"  she 
said.  "I  think  Sunday  afternoon  card-shunting  is  an 
agonising  institution.  It  is  quite  painful  to  watch  the 
b'oredom  and  discomfort  of  the  nicer  sort  of  young  man 
who  pays  his  respects  on  Sunday  afternoons.  Any  man 
who  does  this  sort  of  thing  well  is  certain  to  be  a  toad. 
I  cannot  bear  the  accomplished  caller !" 

Levett  got  up  and  said  that  that  reminded  him  of  his 
own  duties.  He  himself  had  some  cards  to  leave.  They 
arranged  to  go  to  the  opera  together  on  the  following 
Thursday  and  to  go  on  to  a  dance.  "Good-bye,  Rachel," 
said  Levett  with  his  hand  on  the  door,  "I've  spent  a  really 
happy  afternoon.  Let  me  know  how  you  get  on  with 
the  education  of  Miss  Carder!" 

Rachel  smiled  into  the  grey  eyes  of  her  friend,  with 
their  lurking  devil  of  malice,  and  said  she  would  ask 
him  to  meet  her  in  a  fortnight's  time  so  that  he  could 
judge  results! 

After  the  door  had  closed  behind  him,  she  sat  silently 
in  front  of  the  piano.  Then  she  began  playing  again, 


83 

left  off  abruptly,  and  again  sat  silent.  The  sun  had  gone 
behind  some  clouds,  and  a  curious  chill  seemed  to  have 
come  over  everything.  She  could  not  think  what  was 
making  her  so  miserable.  She  went  into  her  bedroom  to 
wash  and  to  tidy  her  hair,  then  went  down  into  the 
drawing-room  to  join  her  mother — who  had  returned 
from  her  luncheon  party — just  as  the  first  caller  arrived. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DURING  the  Hectic  weeks  which  followed  her  first 
dance  at  the  Fawsett  Vivians,  Margot  felt  herself  to  be 
actually  living  in  a  dream.  It  was  impossible  to  real- 
ise everything  at  once.  The  rush  of  new  sensations, 
the  constant  change  of  excitement,  the  succession  of 
experiences  and  the  bewildering  speed  at  which  her  edu- 
cation was  progressing  combined  to  put  her  head  in  a 
whirl.  Her  eyes  grew  brighter  and  the  impression  she 
made  of  alertness  and  vigorous  life  became  stronger,  till 
she  seemed  almost  febrile.  She  was  so  absorbed  in  her 
new  experiences  that  she  hardly  had  time  to  notice  the 
slight  chill  in  Mrs.  Falkenheim's  manner  after  the  Fren- 
sen  episode  at  the  Fawsett  Vivians'  ball,  though  grad- 
ually and  half  consciously  she  became  aware  that  the 
chill  increased  whenever  she  met  and  talked  to  Sir  Carl. 
Mrs.  Falkenheim  was  too  kind,  however,  to  allow  her  an- 
noyance seriously  to  interfere  with  Margot's  happiness. 
She  was  too  "comfortable"  to  be  terrifying,  and  she  en- 
joyed indulging  again,  for  her  fair-haired  Christian  pro- 
tegee, in  maternal  hopes  and  fears  of  which  an  unkind 
fate  had  otherwise  deprived  her.  But  it  was  quite  dif- 
ferent with  Israel.  If  Margot  had  paused  to  think,  had 
given  herself  a  moment  in  which  to  indulge  in  nervous- 
ness, he  would  have  seriously  frightened  her.  As  it  was, 
she  merely  noted,  with  annoyance,  the  way  he  was  con- 
stantly watching  her  out  of  his  dark  eyes.  Since  she 
had  made  the  acquaintance  of  Jews  she  had  learnt  to  hate 
and  fear  their  racial  secretiveness — their  inability  to  put 
the  cards  on  the  table  and  be  frank.  She  could  never 

84 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  85 

tell  what  the  old  man  was  getting  at;  his  remarks  dis- 
quieted her.  But  she  could  not  help  connecting  his  sus- 
picions, like  his  wife's  coldness,  with  her  meeting  with 
Sir  Carl  Frensen.  She  dated  the  subtle  change  in  his 
manner  from  then.  Sometimes  his  remarks  seemed  to 
indicate  an  uncanny  insight,  as  though  he  had  probed 
her  to  the  bottom  of  her  heart.  Then  there  came  the 
day  when  she  caught  him  coming  out  of  her  room,  and 
when  she  went  to  her  writing  table  she  was  certain  that 
two  letters  she  had  received  that  morning,  one  from  Cap- 
tain Stokes  and  one  from  Sir  Carl,  had  been  moved. 
Why  was  the  old  man  spying  on  her?  What  did  he  sus- 
pect? Surely  it  was  entirely  her  own  affair  whether 
she  chose  to  take  Mrs.  Falkenheim's  advice  about  Carl 
Frensen !  She  herself  was  not  above  reading  private*  let- 
ters if  they  were  left  lying  about,  but  she  put  this  down  as 
a  natural  feminine  weakness.  In  men  it  seemed  the  low- 
water  mark  of  all  that  was  base.  She  could  not  imagine 
Jacky  Bruce  ever  reading  anybody's  letter.  It  was  the 
kind  of  thing  a  butler  or  a  footman  would  do ;  in  a  man, 
something  common  and  low.  Mr.  Falkenheim's  investi- 
gations, however,  contrived  at  last  to  upset  her  nerves, 
and  the  feeling  that  she  was  "suspected" — of  something, 
she  knew  not  quite  what — became  a  kind  of  obsession 
which,  while  disturbing  her  peace  of  mind,  lent  a  zest 
to  her  excitements.  She  seemed  to  live  now  on  the  edge 
of  a  precipice,  and  looked  about  wildly  for  something 
to  catch  hold  of  to  save  herself  from  falling  if  the  Fal- 
kenheims  should  desert  her.  She  did  her  best  to  con- 
solidate her  position  with  the  Elkingtons,  and  Rachel's 
warm  affection,  the  genuineness  of  which  she  could  not 
doubt,  was  a  great  source  of  consolation.  She  kept  up 
her  correspondence  also  with  Adam  Henderson,  to  whom 
if  necessary,  she  intended  to  pay  a  prolonged  visit.  She 


86  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

wanted,  in  any  case,  to  have  as  many  ways  of  retreat 
from  the  Falkenheims  open  to  her  as  possible. 

Of  all  the  people  she  had  met  during  her  stay  in  Rich- 
bourne  Terrace,  she  cared  most  for  Rachel  and  for  God- 
frey Levett.  There  was  something  about  both  of  them 
which  she  looked  for  in  vain  in  the  others.  They  were 
different,  there  was  a  "beyond"  to  them;  they  possessed 
something  more  than  a  mere  highly  polished  social  sur- 
face. 

Margot  had  greatly  enjoyed  meeting  Levett  again  at 
dinner  at  the  Elkingtons',  and  had  subsequently  been  to 
tea  with  him  at  his  quaint  little  house  just  off  Church 
Street,  Kensington,  where  he  lived  surrounded  by  books 
and  pictures,  in  a  luxurious  bachelor  retirement.  But 
she  was  sprung  from  a  stock  to  which  business  came 
almost  automatically  before  pleasure,  and  she  was  de- 
termined not  to  waste  too  much  of  her  precious  time 
over  friendships  that  were  merely  amusing.  She  decided 
very  soon  after  her  memorable  debut  in  Portland  Place 
that  the  man  most  likely  to  be  useful  to  her,  to  be  "worth 
while,"  was  Captain  Stokes.  She  did  not  like  anything 
about  him  excepting  his  appearance,  but  the  more  she 
heard  concerning  him,  and  the  more  reference  books  she 
consulted  as  to  his  family  and  antecedents,  the  more  he 
became  surrounded  with  attractive  attributes,  with  a 
kind  of  halo  of  eligibility.  She  used  to  dream  what  it 
would  be  like  to  be  Mrs.  Vernon  Stokes,  with  a  little 
house  perhaps  in  Queen  Street  or  in  John  Street,  and 
the  certainty  of  becoming  Lady  Stokes  whenever  her 
father-in-law  were  tactful  enough  to  die.  No  more  Bays- 
water  for  her !  She'd  teach  old  Falkenheim  to  come  read- 
ing her  private  letters — when  she  was  Lady  Stokes ! 

Margot  was  the  kind  of  person  whose  dreams  are 
always  with  them.  She  went  in,  unconsciously,  for  the 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  87 

process  known  as  "thinking  for  results."  She  visualised 
herself  in  all  the  glory  of  a  successful  Mayfair  marriage 
— and  proceeded  to  treat  Vernon  Stokes  like  dirt.  She 
refused  his  first  three  invitations,  cut  down  his  allow- 
ance of  dances  whenever  they  met  (which  was  almost 
every  night),  and  took  care,  at  frequent  intervals,  to 
let  her  dislike  of  him  be  visible.  The  result  of  this  firm 
line  had  been  a  luncheon  at  the  Berkeley,  two  exciting 
days  at  Epsom  for  the  Derby  and  the  Oaks,  and  a  lit- 
tle dinner  at  the  Carlton,  followed  by  a  theatre  and  sup- 
per at  the  "Five  Hundred  Gub"  with  his  cousin  Joyce 
Cornewall  and  a  brother  officer,  called  Lord  Patcham. 
Then  there  had  been  an  afternoon  party  at  the  family 
mansion  in  Charles  Street,  Berkeley  Square,  where  she 
had  enjoyed  the  thrilling  experience  of  meeting  "the  pa- 
rents" and  had  tried  to  size  them  up  in  order  to  be 
prepared  for  eventualities.  Finally  had  come  an  invita- 
tion to  dine  with  them  quietly  en  famille  and  to  go  on 
afterwards  to  a  dance.  When  this  invitation  came — 
it  was  in  the  first  week  of  July — Margot  felt  that  she 
had  really  made  progress.  The  Falkenheims  had  been 
prevailed  on  to  take  her  to  Ascot,  which  was  one  of  her 
cherished  ambitions,  and  she  had  worn  an  adorable  frock 
which  suited  her  to  perfection.  She  was  sure  she  had 
looked  her  best.  And  now  the  long-desired  invitation 
to  dine  in  Charles  Street  had  arrived.  Her  simple  sys- 
tem had  acted  on  Stokes  with  absolute  precision,  just 
as  she  had  guessed  it  would  act  after  their  first  encoun- 
ter. She  had  learnt  since  then  (through  a  chance  remark 
of  his  which  she  had  overheard)  that  he  wandered  about 
every  night  from  dance  to  dance  until  he  found  her. 
Pleased  as  she  was  to  make  this  discovery  it  did  not  es- 
cape her  sharp  intelligence  that  he  enjoyed  his  pose  of 
having  the  entree  everywhere  just  as  much  as  he  enjoyed 


88  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

finding  her  and  dancing  with  her.  This  perception  on 
her  part  indicated  the  growth  of  disillusion.  The  com- 
plexities of  existence,  however,  which  her  plunge  into 
London  had  revealed  were  still  alarming  and  baffling, 
particularly  as  she  gradually  became  more  and  more  sen- 
sitive to  the  smaller  differences  separating  one  group 
from  another.  She  could  not  accept  things  philosophical- 
ly, acknowledging  that  (in  the  homely  phrase)  it  takes 
all  sorts  to  make  a  world.  Her  original  belief  that  only 
one  sort  is  to  be  found  in  the  world,  indeed,  died  with 
difficulty,  and  only  received  its  death-blow  when  she  be- 
gan to  have  doubts  as  to  what  really  constituted  the 
world  of  worlds. 

The  dinner  with  the  Stokes'  had  been  made  easy  for 
her  by  Mrs.  Falkenheim  in  a  variety  of  subtle  ways 
which  Margot  knew  nothing  whatever  about,  and  for 
which  she  consequently  gave  her  benefactress  no  credit. 
Just  the  right  things  had,  in  point  of  fact,  been  said 
about  her,  so  that  wherever  she  went  her  crudities  were 
condoned,  her  small  vulgarities  of  speech,  manner,  and 
point  of  view  excused.  She  was  something  fresh  and 
new,  and  at  least  associated  with  riches.  Society  was 
prepared  to  make  allowances  for  her,  and  the  rumour 
soon  grew  that  she  was  heiress  to  some  fabulous  Cana- 
dian fortune. 

When  Margot  arrived  at  the  house  in  Charles  Street, 
an  unwonted  feeling  of  nervousness  came  over  her. 
There  was  something  about  the  solidity  of  its  great  fa- 
cade which  seemed  to  symbolize  the  solidity  of  the  tamily 
entrenched  behind  it.  They  were  so  terribly  established, 
while  she — she  had  nothing  but  her  good  looks  and  her 
Canadian  drawl  and  her  cheek  to  recommend  her!  At 
any  moment  she  might  be  thrown  on  her  own  resources 
and  have  to  retire  ignominiously,  a  second-class  passen- 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  89 

ger  on  a  cheap  boat,  to  the  place  whence  she  came.  She 
thought  of  her  dwindled  store — she  had  only  £361  8s.  4d. 
left — shuddered,  and  pulled  herself  together.  The  elec- 
tric bell,  rung  by  the  Falkenheims'  footman,  seemed  to 
her,  as  she  sat  in  the  car  and  listened,  to  make  a  mellow 
tintillation  in  the  midst  of  vast  spaces.  Then  the  huge 
doors  were  opened  by  a  footman,  while  the  butler  ad- 
vanced slowly  to  meet  her  across  the  vault-like  marble 
hall,  which  was  lit  from  a  rich  crystal  chandelier  set 
high  in  the  ceiling.  The  "marble  hall"  instead  of  oppres- 
sing her,  seemed  to  go  to  her  head.  Who  knew  but  what, 
some  day,  it  might  be  her  own?  She  had  only  to  play 
her  cards  rightly,  to  bend  the  will  of  one  vain  and  shal- 
low man  to  hers,  to  become  the  future  mistress  of  every- 
thing her  eyes  beheld.  The  thought  seemed  to  lend  her 
wings.  By  the  time  she  found  herself  shaking  hands 
with  Lady  Stokes,  in  the  small  drawing-room,  the  ner- 
vousness which  had  afflicted  her  while  waiting  in  the  car 
outside  vanished  completely. 

At  dinner  Vernon  was  seen  at  his  best.  His  mother's 
keen  eye  restrained  the  peacock  from  spreading  its  tail, 
and  when  he  was  not  "showing  off"  Vernon  had  a  certain 
humour  which,  while  showing  to  advantage  in  the  rather 
opulent  surroundings,  gave  him  many  opportunities  of 
flashing  his  beautiful  teeth.  Between  Vernon  and  his 
father  very  little  love  seemed  to  be  lost.  Margot  got 
the  impression  that  his  father  in  some  way  jarred  Ver- 
non's  susceptibilities. 

Sir  William  Stokes  was  a  big,  "brushed-up"  man,  with 
hands  that  must  have  been  manicured  every  day.  His 
hair,  which  was  abundant,  was  going  grey,  and  he  wore 
a  carefully  trained  grey  moustache.  His  cruel  blue  eyes 
were  eager,  inquisitive;  he  was  perpetually  asking  rude 
questions,  and  doing  small  acts  of  politeness  in  a  rather 


90  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

pompous  manner.  It  was  obvious  that  to  inferiors  or 
undesirables  he  could  be  grossly  insulting,  with  a  hard, 
plutocratic  insolence.  Margot  felt  his  sneering  eyes  on 
her  during  dinner,  appraising  her,  and  was  almost  over- 
come by  a  desire  to  insult  first  her  host  and  then  his  son. 
The  other  guests  were  Lord  Patcham  and  Joyce  Corne- 
wall,  whom  she  had  already  met  and  whose  engagement 
had  been  announced.  Margot  remembered  having  seen 
photographs  of  them  in  The  Toiler  the  week  before. 
These  two  kept  up  a  constant  flow  of  idiotic  small  talk, 
into  which  she  and  Vernon  joined  every  now  and  then, 
while  Sir  William  and  Lady  Stokes  made  a  rarer  chorus. 
Lady  Stokes  had  a  pathetic  kind  of  crushed  animation. 
When  she  laughed  her  eyes  laughed  too;  the  effect  was 
startling,  for  it  made  her  look  years  younger.  Otherwise 
she  was  a  sad-looking  woman,  with  a  sharp,  rather  acid 
way  of  speaking  and  a  slightly  chilling  manner.  Her 
hair  was  silky  and  quite  white,  her  eyes  were  dark  and 
bright,  and  with  her  face  skilfully  made  up  with  a  little 
rouge  near  the  ears  she  looked  altogether  delightful,  for 
she  had  retained  her  slim  figure  and  beautiful  shoulders. 
Margot  felt  she  would  like  to  ask  her  ever  so  many  ques- 
tions about  life,  about  London,  about  Sir  William,  and, 
above  all  about  Vernon.  She  felt  that  no  one  in  the 
whole  world  could  possibly  know  Vernon  so  well  as  his 
mother.  .  .  . 

Lady  Stokes  regarded  her  son  from  time  to  time  with 
a  melancholy  smile;  he  was  so  like  her,  and  yet  so  oddly 
like  his  father.  He  had  his  father's  passion  for  correct- 
ness, for  making  an  imposing  appearance,  but  it  took  him 
in  a  more  subtle  way.  From  her  he  had  inherited  an 
excellent  manner  and  a  susceptibility  to  fine  shades  of 
feeling  and  conduct.  But  he  was  cursed  with  an  inheri- 
ted "consciousness,"  an  inherited  desire  to  be  in  the 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  91 

height  of  form;  perhaps,  even,  an  inherited  uneasiness. 
Sir  William  Stokes  had  not  been  by  any  means  a  self- 
made  man.  His  father,  an  M.P.  and  Deputy-Lieutenant, 
had  sent  him  to  Eton  and  to  Cambridge;  he  had  been 
brought  up  from  earliest  youth  amid  the  surroundings  of 
wealth.  The  atmosphere  of  his  home  was,  however, 
harshly  material — for  it  had  been  only  natural  for  his 
father  to  value  the  things  he  had  struggled  so  persistently 
to  obtain.  Andrew  Stokes,  the  founder  of  the  family, 
had  begun  life  as  a  skilled  artisan  in  a  Glasgow  engineer- 
ing works  in  early- Victorian  days,  and  in  marrying  a 
doctor's  daughter,  a  lady  immeasurably  "above"  him  at 
the  time  he  married  her,  he  had  taken  his  first  upward 
step.  He  was  a  hard-working  man  of  the  shark  type,  a 
man  of  one  idea,  which  was  to  found  a  family  and  to 
make  his  son  a  gentleman.  Sir  William,  perhaps  as  a 
result  of  the  fierceness  of  his  father's  ambition,  was  al- 
most a  super-gentleman.  From  his  place  of  education 
to  the  varnish  on  his  boots  you  could  not  pick  a  hole  in 
him  anywhere,  while  by  his  marriage  he  had  allied  him- 
self with  one  of  the  most  ancient  families  in  the  kingdom. 
He  belonged,  exclusively,  to  the  "best"  clubs,  and  made 
a  point  of  going  where  people  go.  But  he  did  it  all  a  lit- 
tle consciously,  as  though  inviting  admiration  of  his  per- 
fect gentility.  He  was  curiously  naif  about  the  things 
he  valued.  Had  he  been  told  that  no  one  was  "com- 
plete" who  was  not,  say,  a  Privy  Councillor,  he  would 
have  set  to  work  deliberately  to  attain  that  distinction 
in  order  that  nothing  might  be  missing.  Writh  Vernon 
the  passion  for  correctness  took  him  more  subtly,  and 
was  largely  a  question  of  attitudes.  His  interest  in  every 
subject  was  bound  up  in  his  own  attitude  toward  it. 
He  was  elaborately  "not  a  snob,"  and  often  made  a  point 
of  being  seen  cultivating  his  social  inferiors.  His  atti- 


92  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

tude  here  was  that,  being  himself  Olympian,  he  could 
consort  with  whom  he  pleased — the  more  peculiar  his 
companions,  the  more  clearly  they  threw  into  relief  his 
own  superiority.  He  liked  also  to  let  it  be  seen  that  he 
was  not  merely  the  ultra-smart  soldier,  but  had  a  taste 
for  literature,  for  art,  and  such  like  matters.  All  this 
increased  his  feeling  of  superiority,  as  did  his  habit  of 
being,  on  occasions,  rather  rude  to  harmless  people  of 
his  own  class,  in  order  to  show  that  he  was  above  any 
snobbish  display  of  merely  being  a  "little  gentleman." 
It  was  characteristic  of  the  difference  between  father  and 
son  that  Vernon  Stokes  would  have  suffered  agonies  at 
the  thought  of  being  rude  to  anyone  beneath  him  in  rank. 
He  liked  the  incense  of  inferiors;  it  soothed  the  in- 
ward uneasiness  that  was  his  most  deeply  guarded  secret. 

Margot  felt  sorry  for  him  as  she  looked  at  him  and 
laughed  during  dinner,  and  made  some  drawling  remark 
about  the  dances  they  had  been  to  during  the  past  week. 
It  was  so  easy  to  make  him  wince  that  it  seemed  unfair 
to  do  so.  He  was  very  attentive  to  her,  and  behind  his 
elaborate  nonchalance  and  reserve  she  divined  that  he 
was  very  anxious  for  her  to  make  a  good  impression  on 
his  mother  and  on  his  father.  This  perception  thrilled 
her  with  a  feeling  of  triumph ;  her  eyes  sparkled ;  she  felt 
a  sudden  wave  of  self-confidence^  particularly  when  she 
compared  her  lovely  Doucet  frock  with  Joyce  Corne- 
wall's  foolish  garment  of  pink  chiffon  which  looked  as 
if  it  had  been  run  together  by  her  mother's  maid.  Before 
the  dinner  was  half-way  through  she  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  finding  that  Lord  Patcham  addressed  half  his  fat- 
uous remarks  to  her;  and  she  got  the  impression  (which 
she  adored)  that  for  almost  everyone  in  the  room  she 
was  the  centre  of  interest. 

In  an  argument  on  night  clubs  and  dancing  clubs  be- 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  93 

tween  Patcham  and  Vernon,  Margot  found  herself  sid- 
ing with  Patcham. 

"You're  just  like  that  Father  what's-his-name,  Ver- 
non," Patcham  remarked,  "Your  idea  of  a  pleasant  eve- 
ning is  'a  fashionable  reunion !'  Joyce  and  I  like  being 
amused,  .  .  .  and  I  expect  Miss  Cartier  does  too. 
We  like  to  get  away  from  the  deadly  round  of  'fashion- 
able affairs'  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  mind  where  I  go,"  said  Vernon,  "as  long  as 
it  isn't  the  suburbs  of  society.  Really,  my  dear  boy, 
some  of  those  dance  clubs  ...  !"  Vernon's  eye- 
brows indicated  unspoken  volumes. 

"There  he  goes  again !"  Patcham  remarked.  "Always 
thinking  of  what  the  other  people  are  like!  You  don't 
have  to  dance  with  'em,  and  they're  just  as  amusing  to 
watch  as  the  average  crowd  at  the  Ritz — and  very  often 
ten  times  more  so.  Besides,  they  aren't  afraid  of  being 
amused.  They  go  there  to  dance,  just  as  one  goes  to 
some  decent  pub  like  the  Carlton  or  the  Savoy  to  eat. 
And  they  pay  the  shot  themselves,  instead  of  sponging 
on  some  climber  whose  name  they  can't  even  remember. 
Now  Vernon  is  never  happy  unless  he  is  at  a  function. 
It  must  be  some  'smart  affair,'  as  Vesta  Tilley  would  say, 
or  he  feels  miserable !  Isn't  that  so,  Lady  Stokes  ?"  Lady 
Stokes,  when  appealed  to,  laughed  at  Patcham  and  said 
the  world  had  moved  on  too  quickly  for  her  to  keep 
pace  with  it. 

"I  must  confess,  though,"  she  added,  with  a  twinkle 
in  her  extraordinarily  young  eyes,  "that  I  have  a  sneak- 
ing desire  just  to  see  what  one  of  these  clubs  is  like.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  mother!"  said  Vernon  with  an  expression  of 
despair,  "I  never  thought  it  of  you!  Of  course,  Pat- 
cham's  views  are  natural  enough — he's  half  a  Yank  to 
look  at,  and  has  a  passion  for  being  up-to-date  at  any 


94  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

price.  As  for  Joyce,  she's  just  a  plain  rip.  As  long  as 
she  thinks  she  is  on  the  primrose  path,  she  is  game  to 
waltz." 

"It  sounds  like  a  subject  for  a  Clapham  debating  so- 
ciety!" Joyce  observed.  "Do  dance  clubs  lead  to  de- 
struction ?" 

"It's  because  Clapham  believes  they  do  that  it  flocks 
to  them  in  such  numbers,"  laughed  Vernon. 

"Good  old  Clapham,  then;  it  knows  how  to  enjoy  it- 
self. We'll  join  in,  too,  Joyce,  and  have  some  of  the 
fun,"  Patcham  said.  "We  aren't  proud  so  long  as  the 
floor  and  band  are  good  and  Joyce  gets  a  chance  of  spot- 
ting the  favourite !" 

"You  can't  talk  about  spotting  the  favourite!"  said 
Joyce  with  a  flash  of  adorable  eyes  and  a  little  malicious 
glance.  "If  you  can  believe  it,  Aunt  Julia,"  she  added, 
"he  spends  the  whole  of  supper  pointing  out  girls  from 
the  front  row  at  Daly's  or  the  Empire — 'there  goes  Dolly 
Martin;  that  one  over  there  is  Jenny  Peech' — and  so 
on  for  hours  together.  I  tell  him  he  ought  to  leave  me 
at  home  on  these  occasions  ...  or  else  dissemble !" 

"Ah,  that's  the  bother,"  said  Patcham ;  "I  never  could 
dissemble,  could  I,  Vernon?"  Vernon  chuckled  and 
looked  through  his  lovely  eyelashes.  "About  as  much  as 
an  elephant!" 

"I  must  say  I  agree  with  Vernon,  you  know,  about 
those  clubs,"  Sir  William  chimed  in,  just  when  the  sub- 
ject was  ready  for  burial.  "I  think  they  are  horrible 
places.  It  is  a  mystery  to  me  why  decent  people  go  to 
them.  No  offence  to  you  and  Joyce,  of  course,"  he  added 
in  a  gust  of  over-politeness.  Vernon  did  not  show  any 
enthusiasm  for  being  agreed  with  by  his  father,  and  be- 
gan to  differentiate  between  clubs,  some  of  them  meet- 
ing with  a  qualified  approval.  "What  do  you  think 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  95 

about  them,  Miss  Cartier?"  Sir  William  asked  with  the 
air  of  putting  a  leading  question  on  which  his  future 
opinion  of  Margot  was  to  depend.  This  aggressiveness 
fired  Margot's  high  spirits ;  her  native  unwillingness  to  be 
"put  upon"  asserted  itself. 

"You  see,"  she  drawled,  "to  me  everything  in  London 
is  amusing,  and  I  don't  really  know  what  is  smart  and 
what  isn't  yet."  Vernon  winced  at  this.  "I  must  say, 
though,  I  agree  with  Lord  Patcham  that  the  important 
thing  is  just  to  have  a  good  time,  and  I'd  sooner  by 
far  go  to  one  of  these  clubs  than  to  some  reg'lar  punk 
dance  where  everybody's  bored  rigid." 

Sir  William's  eyebrows  turned  themselves  into  ques- 
tion marks  at  Margot's  Colonial  slang,  but  she  returned 
his  glance  with  interest,  while  Lady  Stokes,  with  a  little 
burst  of  laughter,  remarked,  "I  think  Miss  Cartier  has 
put  the  whole  situation  in  a  nutshell.  Vernon,  you  will 
have  to  swallow  your  scruples  one  evening  and  take  us 
all  to  the  Five  Hundred  or  to  Martin's.  .  .  ." 

Vernon  and  his  mother  smlied  affectionately  at  one 
another.  His  devotion  to  her  was  the  thing  Margot  most 
liked  about  him. 

The  conversation  strayed  suddenly  from  dancing  clubs 
to  horses,  and  Patcham  became  eloquent,  twisting  his 
monocle  and  clipping  his  "g's."  Newbury  and  Ascot 
were  discussed  from  a  highly  technical  standpoint  which 
Margot  found  extremely  dull ;  and  the  prospects  for 
Goodwood  were  canvassed  as  seriously  as  if  the  Empire 
were  at  stake.  Sir  William  joined  in  with  animation, 
and  Margot  was  surprised  and  annoyed  to  find  that  the 
women  of  the  party  could  talk  horses  as  fluently  as  the 
men.  Lady  Stokes  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  a  chest- 
nut filly  with  white  stockings  who  ran  second  in  some 
"selling  plate." 


96  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

On  the  whole,  Margot  was  not  sorry  when  dinner  came 
to  an  end.  There  was  something  rather  oppressive  in 
its  elaborate  ceremonial,  though  the  fact  that  there  were 
two  footmen  to  help  the  butler  wait  on  six  people 
seemed  to  her  quite  as  it  should  be.  After  the  initial 
pleasure  of  being  taken  down  in  great  state  on  Sir  Wil- 
liam's arm,  she  had  found  the  meal  tedious,  and  was 
relieved  when  Lady  Stokes  rose  from  the  table  and  the 
men  were  left  to  their  port  wine. 


CHAPTER  IX 

JOYCE  CORNEWALL  produced  a  cigarette-case  as  soon 
as  they  got  back  to  the  drawing-room,  remarking,  "Thank 
the  Lord;  now  we  can  smoke — can't  we,  Aunt  Julia?" 
just  like  a  boy.  Lady  Stokes  let  the  two  girls  chatter 
together,  occasionally  throwing  in  a  word  here  and  there. 
Margot  thought  what  a  dear  she  was,  and  how  charm- 
ing was  Joyce,  but  she  found  it  hard  to  keep  her  mind 
on  the  conversation.  Her  brain  was  working  furiously ; 
her  eyes  were  everywhere.  Each  minute  detail  of  the 
behaviour  of  the  women  she  was  with  was  noted  and 
registered;  every  movement  of  a  servant  was  observed; 
and  as  for  the  room,  she  would  have  been  able  to  recite 
a  complete  inventory  of  its  contents  within  ten  minutes. 

Margot  fell  an  immediate  victim  to  Joyce;  she  was 
an  entirely  unimagined  type,  and  gave  an  impression 
of  rakishness — combined  with  remaining  a  "thoroughly 
nice  girl" — that  was  delightful.  Margot  no  longer  won- 
dered what  it  was  that  Patcham  saw  in  her,  and  only 
wished  that  Vernon  had  half  the  wit  and  charm  of  his 
cousin. 

When  the  men  came  upstairs,  Vernon  said,  "I  thought 
of  taking  Miss  Cartier  on  to  Aunt  Mary's.  There  will 
be  several  people  there  who  won't  mind  chaperoning  her. 
I've  just  been  telephoning.  I  think  Patcham  and  Joyce 
ought  to  put  in  an  appearance  for  an  hour  or  so  be- 
fore going  to  their  scandalous  haunts." 

Aunt  Mary  Wilkinson  was  Joyce's  bete  noire,  but  she 
agreed  because,  in  some  vague  way,  she  thought  it  might 
be  friendly  to  Margot. 

97 


98  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

Margot  was  not  in  the  best  of  tempers  at  being  for- 
cibly'"taken."  She  expected  her  desires  to  be  consulted. 
It  was  true  she  had  accepted  in  general  terms,  and  had 
explained  to  Mrs.  Falkenheim  that  she  would  be  chaper- 
oned by  Captain  Stokes'  aunt,  but  she  expected  the 
dance  to  be  at  the  Ritz  or  the  Hyde  Park  Hotel — not 
in  a  turning  off  the  Cromwell  Road. 

When  they  got  to  Mrs.  Wilkinson's  rather  shabby 
house,  Margot  found  herself  once  more  in  a  fresh  atmo- 
sphere. Would  London  never  end,  she  thought!  How 
could  one  get  a  general  view  of  it,  and  see  where  one 
wanted  to  be  ?  On  a  first  inspection,  what  she  afterwards 
discovered  to  be  the  South  Kensington  Anglo-Indian  con- 
tingent (in  full  force)  seemed  to  make  up  in  manner 
what  they  may  have  lacked  in  mere  wealth.  Colonel  Wil- 
kinson was  a  personage  in  this  particular  set.  "All  An- 
glo-Indians," Joyce  remarked  confidentially  to  Margot, 
"have  an  incorrigible  tendency  to  possess  marriageable 
daughters  and  over-drafts  at  Grindlay's !  That's  why 
the  plutocrats  are  here."  She  pointed  out  a  row  of 
over-dressed  young  men  with  blue  chins,  monocles  and 
a  sarcastic  manner  laboriously  acquired.  Margot  got 
nearer  to  caring  for  Vernon,  as  she  looked  at  Joyce's 
plutocrats  and  realised  all  the  things  he  wasn't,  than 
she  had  ever  been  before. 

The  dance  turned  out  better  than  it  looked ;  there  was 
an  infectious  gaiety  in  the  room  which  made  it  go  with 
a  swing.  The  girls,  even  the  "debs,"  seemed  to  have  a 
bit  more  ginger  in  them  than  the  pallid  "tish-tishy"  crea- 
tures Margot  had  seen  at  the  more  expensive  entertain- 
ments. Their  clothes  were  cheap,  but  they  wore  them 
with  an  air.  Joyce  she  particularly  admired.  This 
girl,  with  her  dare-devil,  proud  eyes,  enchanted  her  and 
reminded  her  of  a  portrait  by  Gainsborough  of  a  Miss 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  99 

Singleton,  which  Rachel  had  pointed  out  once  in  the 
National  Gallery.  Vernon  introduced  her  to  his  grand- 
mother, and  to  various  aunts  and  other  relatives,  and 
also  to  his  grandfather.  The  old  couple  amused  Mar- 
got  particularly.  Mrs.  Cornewall  was  large,  incredibly 
old,  and  highly  ornamented.  She  had  tiny  hands  and 
feet  (of  which  she  was  inordinately  vain),  and  her  "star- 
ers"  hid  young,  laughing  eyes,  like  the  eyes  of  Vernon's 
mother.  "My  dear,"  she  said  to  Margot,  "what  a  nice 
neck  Patcham  has;  and  do  you  see  the  charming  way 
his  hair  lifts  from  his  forehead!  It's  a  funny  thing, 
but  we  women  never  get  too  old  to  admire  the  men!" 
She  laughed  and  looked  so  pretty  that  Margot  was  temp- 
ted to  throw  her  white  arms  round  the  old  lady's  neck 
and  give  her  a  resounding  kiss  on  both  cheeks.  General 
Cornewall  also  made  a  conquest.  He  belonged  to  the 
"Boggley-Wallah"  type  of  Indian  administrator,  and 
Vernon  told  Margot  how,  in  his  youth,  he  had  been  sent 
to  rule  a  territory  as  large  as  Belgium,  consisting,  for 
the  most  part,  of  virgin  forests.  He  had  arrived  with 
an  army  of  workmen,  and  the  workmen  proceeded  to 
erect  a  gigantic  larder  and  wine  cellar.  These  he  filled 
with  every  luxury  known  to  the  gourmet,  with  wines 
from  every  famous  vineyard,  with  stores  of  provisions 
sufficient  to  last  him  for  several  years.  When  his  prep- 
arations were  completed  he  ran  up  a  little  house  conveni- 
ently near  his  larder  and  proceeded  to  bellow  at  the  na- 
tives, standing  on  the  outskirts  of  the  virgin  forest.  After 
he  had  bellowed  persistently  for  four  or  five  years,  the 
natives  naturally  mistook  him  for  a  god  and  obeyed  him 
implicitly.  Of  the  bellowing  habit  he  had  been  unable 
to  break  himself,  and  his  small  talk  at  dances  reverbera- 
ted above  the  loudest  band.  He  was  seventy-nine  years 
old,  rather  ungainly  in  build,  and  wore  a  short  grey 


ioo  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

beard.  He  was  never  seen  without  a  woolen  comforter 
disposed  somewhere  about  his  person.  Margot  noticed 
the  ends  of  it  appearing  out  of  the  inside  pocket  of  his 
evening  coat. 

Margot  danced  the  first  two  dances  with  Vernon. 
Just  as  the  second  one  came  to  an  end,  she  noticed 
Godfrey  Levett  and  Rachel  coming  into  the  room,  and 
insisted  on  Vernon  taking  her  across  to  them.  Vernon 
knew  both  Levett  and  Miss  Elkington  slightly.  He 
could  not  forget  them  because,  being  extremely  sensitive 
to  the  impression  he  made  on  people,  he  realised  that 
they  both  disliked  him.  He  asked  Rachel  for  a  dance 
in  the  hope  that  she  would  talk  to  him  about  Margot, 
while  the  blonde  devil  who  was  driving  him  distracted 
was  carried  off  by  Levett. 

Margot  always  felt  interested,  alert,  excited  when 
she  was  with  Levett.  She  never  knew  what  he  might 
do  next.  He  was  so  unlike  any  of  the  well-worn  types 
she  had  met  so  constantly ;  he  was  an  original,  and  might 
perhaps  be  very  wicked.  She  almost  hoped  he  was. 
After  they  had  danced,  they  went  out  into  the  street  to 
get  cool,  as  there  was  no  garden,  and  the  balcony  was 
crowded.  They  walked  on  under  the  stars  through  the 
warm  summer  night,  and  Margot  felt  a  wave  of  emo- 
tion flowing  over  her ;  she  felt  as  though  she  could  walk 
on  and  on  seeking  some  great  adventure,  some  great 
love;  there  was  a  strange  magic  over  everything;  the 
intoxication  of  her  own  youth  and  loveliness  rose  to  her 
head.  She  felt  herself  to  be  a  princess.  When  they  got 
to  the  end  of  the  street  of  silent  houses  a  taxi  drew  up 
by  their  side. 

"Let's  cut  two  dances  and  go  for  a  spin,"  Levett  sug- 
gested. "No  one  will  know,  and  we  shall  be  back  in 
heaps  of  time  for  supper!" 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  101 

They  drove  off  down  the  deserted  street,  and,  half 
expecting  what  was  going  to  happen,  Margot  found 
herself  in  Levett's  arms,  with  his  lips  pressed  to  hers. 
She  sat  with  his  arm  holding  her  tightly,  with  her  head 
on  his  shoulder,  speechless  with  excitement.  The  mean- 
ing of  existence  seemed  suddenly  to  be  revealed  to  her. 
She  felt  no  affection  for  Levett,  none  for  Vernon,  but  she 
was  absorbed  with  interest  in  her  own  sensations.  Once 
again  the  male  lips  sought  hers ;  she  felt  herself  eagerly 
desired,  and  the  realisation  of  this  gave  her  pleasure, 
while  through  her  veins  there  ran  a  thrill  that  was  al- 
most painful.  She  had  never  experienced  anything  like 
it;  she  did  not  know  what  it  meant;  but  it  seemed  that 
she  had  never  before  lived  so  intensely  as  at  this  mo- 
ment. All  her  other  experiences  seemed  a  little  cheap 
by  contrast. 

"You  are  an  enchanting  creature!"  murmured  Levett, 
looking  at  her  with  a  light  in  his  eyes.  "Whoever  gets 
you  will  be  a  lucky  man,  Margot.  You  are  so  deliciously 
mexperimentSe,  in  some  ways;  so  very  much  all  there 
in  others." 

Margot  detested  Levett's  habitual  note  of  raillery,  and 
it  annoyed  her  that,  even  while  his  passion  for  her  was 
almost  overmastering  him,  he  should  at  the  same  time 
be  appraising  her,  with  mockery  and  a  cynical  amuse- 
ment. 

"You've  no  heart!"  he  said  abruptly.  "Not  a  scrap. 
.  .  .  All  the  same,  one  of  these  days  someone  will 
wake  you  up.  ..." 

She  drew  away  from  him  in  annoyance  and  began 
tidying  her  hair.  Then  she  turned  to  him  again.  "I 
wonder  if  I  am  cold,"  she  said.  Her  eyes  were  bright 
in  the  moonlight  which  came  through  the  window  of 
the  cab ;  her  beautiful  bosom  was  in  distress ;  she  looked 


102  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

the  image  of  a  passionate  woman,  but  her  eyes  were 
not  soft,  and  her  brain  was  alert  for  his  answer.  He 
lighted  a  cigarette  first,  taking  the  silver  case  deliberately 
out  of  his  breast  pocket,  choosing  one  carefully  and  tap- 
ping it  on  the  case.  Then  he  told  the  chauffeur  to  drive 
back,  and  fingered  his  tie.  "My  dear,"  he  said,  "you 
give  me  the  impression  of  never  having  cared  for  any- 
one except  yourself,  simply  because  you've  never  met 
anyone  to  care  for.  When  love  comes  to  you  I  hope, 
for  your  sake,  it  will  be  for  the  man  you  are  going  to 
marry.  ..." 

"By  the  way,"  Levett  continued,  in  an  altered  voice, 
"has  he  proposed  yet?" 

"Godfrey,  you  nasty  creature!"  Margot  replied, 
laughing  in  spite  of  herself.  "Of  course  he  hasn't  .  .  . 
yet." 

"He  will  when  he  finds  you've  cut  two  or  three  of 
his  dances!"  Levett  replied.  "I'm  a  perfect  fairy  god- 
father to  you  two.  You  must  be  sure  to  ask  me  to  the 
wedding." 

"If  I  had  known  you  didn't  care  a  scrap  I  wouldn't 
have  let  you  .  .  ."  Margot  replied  irrelevantly.  His 
answer  was  to  take  her  again  in  his  arms  and  cover  her 
eyes  and  mouth  with  kisses.  Her  excitement  was  almost 
more  than  she  could  bear.  "You  devil,"  she  gasped,  tear- 
ing herself  away  from  him  as  they  began  to  draw  near 
the  Wilkinson's  house,  "I  don't  know  what  it  is  you  do 
to  me,  but  if  either  of  us  is  cold,  it's  you." 

"So  you  see,"  said  Godfrey,  "we  ought  to  be  awfully 
good  friends.  You  must  come  and  have  tea  with  me 
again  on  Thursday,  and  become  the  devil's  disciple." 

They  got  out  of  the  cab  and  turned  the  corner  of 
the  street  stealthily.  A  number  of  girls  and  men  were 
walking  about  in  front  of  the  house,  and  they  strolled 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  103 

very  slowly,  with  an  elaborate  imitation  of  the  walk  of 
a  couple  who  have  just  been  dancing,  towards  the  others. 
They  entered  the  house,  when  the  music  started,  sur- 
rounded by  other  people,  and  began,  unobtrusively,  to 
dance.  Margot  could  tell,  however,  by  a  look  in  Ver- 
non's  eye,  that  he  knew  quite  well  where  she  had  been, 
even  if  his  aunt  did  not. 

She  danced  the  next  dance  with  him,  after  which  they 
went  down  to  supper.  Mrs.  Cornewall  and  the  General 
were  already  installed.  It  was  Mrs.  Cornewall's  duty  to 
find  her  husband  everything  good  there  was  to  eat  which 
his  doctor  would  allow  him.  He  sat  at  a  table  alone  with 
his  wife,  a  napkin  tucked  into  his  neck,  like  a  commis- 
voyageur,  immense  and  serious,  while  all  kinds  of  dishes 
were  collected  round  him.  "Your  grandad's  a  real  peach, 
Vernon,"  Margot  remarked  in  a  more  conciliatory  tone 
than  she  usually  adopted,  "but  he's  a  no  end  messy  feeder, 
and  no  mistake!" 

The  ex-Administrator  could  be  heard  bellowing  com- 
ments on  the  different  dishes  to  his  wife,  who  listened 
dutifully  as  she  had  listened  for  the  last  fifty  years. 

"Grandfather  likes  his  meals,"  Vernon  replied.  "He 
lives  at  Clevedon,  you  know,  and  goes  out  shopping  every 
morning  in  his  carriage.  I  met  him  outside  a  fishmon- 
ger's a  little  while  ago,  holding  a  large  turbot  to  his 
chest  and  prodding  it  to  see  if  it  was  a  good  'un.  Event- 
ually he  gave  the  turbot  back  and  bought  another  one 
up  the  road  for  less  money!" 

Margot  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  felt  that  it  was 
hardly  in  accordance  with  her  ideal  for  an  English  aris- 
tocrat to  haggle  with  a  fishmonger,  but  she  concealed 
this  as  far  as  she  could.  .  .  . 

"I  hope  you  had  an  amusing  walk  ?"  Vernon  remarked 
after  a  pause,  helping  her  to  some  champagne.  She 


104  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

could  see  that  he  was  struggling  with  himself  to  make 
his  voice  sound  normal. 

"Very,  thanks." 

"You  cut  about  four  dances!"  he  said  with  a  sigh. 
"Just  my  luck!  And  Aunt  Mary  kept  asking  where  you 
were.  You'll  have  to  go  and  do  the  polite.  .  .  ." 

This  remark  of  Vernon's  rather  nonplussed  Margot. 
Her  first  instinct  was  to  put  Vernon  in  his  place,  but 
his  suggestion  that  she  had  in  some  way  transgressed  the 
laws  of  etiquette  in  regard  to  his  aunt  was  extremely 
disconcerting.  She  looked  round  for  Rachel,  who  was 
supping  at  another  table,  and  beamed  at  her  with  af- 
fection. This  look  heartened  her;  she  wished  she  could 
get  two  minutes  with  Rachel  and  ask  her  advice. 

"I'm  sorry  if  your  aunt  thought  I  was  away  a  long 
time,"  Margot  remarked  haughtily.  "I  ought  not  to 
have  come  without  a  proper  chaperon." 

"Oh,  nonsense,"  Vernon  said.  "It's  quite  all  right, 
really.  Of  course,  it  is  a  little  complicated  my  not  hav- 
ing dined  at  the  Falkenheims'  since  you  have  been  stay- 
ing with  them.  But  I  dare  say  it  wasn't  possible  to  work 
it.  In  any  case,  it  doesn't  matter  a  rap,  and  Aunt  Mary 
gave  me  up  ages  ago.  She  has  a  certain  steely  glance 
which  she  reserves  for  me." 

Margot  had  never  known  Vernon  to  "drop  hints"  before 
that  anything  about  her  was  anything  else  than  perfect, 
and  the  suggestion  that  she  might  have  betrayed  her  ig- 
norance, with  him,  in  some  serious  way,  alarmed  her. 
She  lost  all  pleasure  in  the  dance,  and,  after  a  hurried 
word  with  Rachel,  while  she  was  powdering  her  nose, 
she  decided  to  go  home.  It  was  Rachel's  advice  when- 
ever one  felt  things  were  not  going  quite  right.  She 
announced  her  intention  coldly  to  Vernon,  and  was 
pleased  by  his  look  of  disappointment.  She  was  so  pre- 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  105 

occupied  now  with  the  danger  which  seemed  to  threaten 
her  schemes  that  she  completely  forgot  about  Levett, 
who  watched  her,  with  amusement,  out  of  a  corner  of 
his  eye,  while  dancing  with  one  of  the  Miss  Wilkinsons. 

When  she  found  herself  in  the  taxi  by  the  side  of 
Vernon  she  was  kinder  to  him  than  she  usually  allowed 
herself  to  be,  and,  laying  her  hand  for  a  moment  on 
his  knee,  told  him  she  was  sorry  she  had  missed  the 
dances,  but  she  had  been  discussing  something  rather 
important,  and  had  not  noticed  how  the  time  flew.  Ver- 
non trembled  all  over  when  she  touched  him.  He  shook 
so  much  that  he  could  hardly  speak.  She  looked  at  him 
curiously,  and  felt  her  heart  warming  toward  him.  He, 
at  any  rate,  wasn't  pretending.  "Don't  be  angry,  Ver- 
non," she  said,  "or  I  shall  turn  you  out  of  the  cab  and 
drive  home  by  myself!" 

"By  Gad,  you  are  a  cruel  goddess!"  he  muttered 
through  his  moustache.  "You've  got  me  gagged  and 
bound,  Margot,"  he  whispered.  It  was  characteristic 
that  in  expressing  his  love  for  her  he  did  so  in  the  most 
impressive  way  he  knew  by  telling  her  that  she  had  no 
less  a  person  than  Vernon  Stokes  at  her  mercy. 

Margot  felt  a  wave  of  triumph  sweeping  over  her. 
She  looked  at  him  and  smiled,  but  she  was  determined 
to  stave  off  the  embrace  which  threatened.  He  was  busy 
putting  her  on  a  pedestal,  and  she  did  not  want  him,  too 
soon,  to  find  the  way  up  the  ladder. 

"You  are  an  old  fool,  Vernon!"  she  said  caressingly. 

"You  don't  care  for  me.    .    .    ." 

"I  do  care,  very  much.  But  perhaps  not  in  the  way 
you  want." 

"There  is  only  one  way." 

"Oh,  no,  there  isn't.  Caring  isn't  a  sudden  thing.  Be- 
sides, how  can  I  tell  yet?  Or  you  either,  for  that  mat- 


106  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

ter.  All  this  is  only  an  evening's  amusement  with  you. 
I  don't  believe  you  are  in  the  least  sincere !" 

"Good  Lord,  ain't  I !"  he  said  with  an  effort  at  light- 
ness which  failed  dismally.  His  elaborate  social  mask 
was  dropped,  and  in  the  trembling  and  beautiful  male 
animal  by  her  side  she  suddenly  saw  a  victim  which 
inscrutable  fate  had  delivered  into  her  hands.  He  put 
his  arm  slowly  round  her  waist ;  she  could  feel  the  elec- 
tricity of  his  eagerness  through  her  clothes  as  his  hand 
touched  her.  But  she  did  not  intend  to  capitulate  too 
soon.  She  freed  herself  and  turned  her  face  away  from 
his  lips.  She  was  conscious  that  he  was  shaking  with 
nervous  eagerness,  at  her  mercy.  How  different  this 
was  from  her  truant  drive  with  Godfrey  Levett.  She 
had  never  had  Levett  at  her  mercy,  and  while  he  was 
able  to  laugh  with  those  mocking  grey  eyes  of  his,  he 
never  would  be  at  her  mercy,  or  at  the  mercy  of  any 
woman.  He  never  put  her  on  any  pedestal — on  the  con- 
trary! She  grew  angry  when  she  thought  that  his  ac- 
tion had  been  brutal  and  contemptuous.  But  not  very 
angry.  She  was  not  at  all  sure  that  she  did  not  like 
brutality  and  contempt.  It  was  so  exciting.  Evidently 
Vernon  found  it  so  as  well.  Good  Heavens!  she  had 
forgotten  all  about  him.  Her  thoughts  had  wandered. 
Was  he  speaking  to  her  ? 

Vernon  had  not  noticed  her  momentary  distraction.  In 
spite  of  his  nervousness  of  desire,  he  was  by  no  means 
inclined  to  underrate  himself,  and  her  apparent  moodiness 
he  put  down  to  her  natural  excitement  at  his  avowal. 
Once  more  he  insinuated  the  protective  arm  round  her 
waist.  The  journey  was  so  nearly  ended!  "Don't  you 
think  you  could  care  for  me,  Margot,  dear,  just  a  little? 
We  could  be  so  happy  if  we  were  married.  ...  I  am 
sure  we  could.  ." 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  107 

"Vernon — you  mustn't  say  those  things,"  Margot 
whispered  in  studiously  emotional  tones  as  the  cab  drew 
up  at  the  Falkenheim's  door.  "I  like  you  very  much  as 
a  friend.  .  .  .  but,  as  for  anything  else  .  .  .  how  can  1 
tell  when  I  have  only  known  you  a  few  weeks  ?"  Vernon 
bit  his  moustache  with  mortification.  How  he  loathed 
that  phrase,  "I  like  you  very  much  as  a  friend."  It  had 
been  used  to  him  by  a  pretty  chorus  girl  as  he  was 
driving  her  back  to  her  flat  after  a  Covent  Garden  ball,, 
in  his  Sandhurst  days.  His  vanity  had  never  got  over 
that  knock. 

"I  think  you  are  the  crudest  and  most  beautiful 
creature  that  ever  lived,"  he  said  as  he  handed  her  back 
her  key  after  unlocking  the  great  front  door  for  her.  "I 
wish  I  could  forget  all  about  you  for  ever !" 

"Try !"  she  said,  laughing  at  him  joyously  as  she  closed 
the  door. 


CHAPTER  X 

"WiLL  you  come  and  make  some  calls  with  me  this 
afternoon,  my  dear?"  Mrs.  Falkenheim  let  the  request 
fall  placidly,  during  luncheon,  about  a  week  after  the 
dinner  party  at  Charles  Street.  She  spoke  as  though  no 
special  importance  attached  to  the  matter,  but  Margot 
happened  to  have  promised  to  go  to  tea  with  Sir  Carl 
Frensen  that  afternoon.  She  was  particularly  anxious  to 
placate  Mrs.  Falkenheim,  but  at  the  same  time  she  didn't 
see  why  she  should  give  up  a  visit  on  which  she  had  set 
her  heart,  just  because  the  Falkenheims  and  Sir  Carl 
happened  to  be  enemies. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  can,"  she  said,  to  gain  time,  and  she 
was  deliberating  what  she  should  do,  when  she  encoun- 
tered the  malignant  glance  of  Israel  Falkenheim  fixed 
upon  her.  He  was  sitting  facing  the  window,  with  the 
light  full  on  him,  so  that  every  flicker  of  expression  on 
his  face  was  observable  by  Margot.  He  looked  as  though 
his  thin,  cold  fingers  might  have  clutched  a  knife  if  the 
butler  had  not  been  standing  just  behind  him.  Elemental 
passion,  as  old  as  human  nature,  seemed  to  burn  in  his 
black  eyes;  his  lips  were  pressed  tightly  together. 
Margot's  heart  sank  when  she  looked  at  him.  She  was 
no  coward,  but  this  momentary  withdrawal  of  the  mask 
on  her  host's  part,  made  her  pause.  She  had  no  intention 
of  giving  up  her  visit  to  Sir  Carl,  but  she  thought  it  as 
well  to  be  diplomatic.  She  appeared  to  consider  for  a 
moment ;  then  she  remarked  blandly  to  Mrs.  Falkenheim : 

"Oh,  no ;  do  you  know,  I  am  afraid  I  can't  come  with 
you  this  afternoon  after  all?  I  have  just  remembered  I 

108 


M ARGOT'S  PRO'GRESS  109 

promised  to  go  round  to  Rachel's  and  help  her  buy  a  hat. 
What  a  nuisance!  But  I  promised  Rachel  most  par- 
ticularly !" 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Falkenheim  in 
her  fat  voice.  She  appeared  to  retire  into  herself — 
ruminating. 

Again  Margot's  eyes  met  Israel's.  The  butler  was  in 
the  act  of  handing  him  the  savoury.  He  helped  himself 
abruptly;  then,  with  spoon  and  fork  half-way  between 
the  dish  and  his  plate,  paused  and  put  the  morsel  of  toast 
and  fish  back  on  the  dish. 

"  No,  I  won't  have  any,"  he  remarked  in  a  harsh  and 
strained  tone.  .  .  .  "Excuse  me."  He  rose  quickly  and 
went  out.  Margot  felt  herself  going  white  as  the  heavy 
mahogany  door  closed  behind  him  with  a  thud  and 
Fraser's  face  assumed  that  expression  of  ultra-indiffer- 
ence which  even  Margot  had  come  to  realize  meant  that 
he  had  missed  nothing. 

Mrs.  Falkenheim  made  no  comment,  and  Margot 
swallowed  her  hock  quickly  and  was  glad  when  she  could 
without  loss  of  dignity  escape.  When  she  reached  her 
room  she  flew  at  once  to  her  writing-table,  and  the  situa- 
tion was  revealed  to  her  in  a  flash  as  she  pulled  open  one 
of  the  drawers  and  found  at  the  bottom  of  it  Sir  Carl 
Frensen's  note,  inviting  her.  How  could  she  have  been 
so  maniacally  careless  as  to  leave  it  lying  about!  Of 
course,  Israel  had  been  to  her  room  and  read  it.  lie 
didn't  believe  her;  he  knew  she  meant  to  go,  and  that 
what  she  had  said  about  Rachel  was  a  lie. 

"Very  well,"  thought  Margot,  "I  will  go  just  to  spite 
him  .  .  .  the  old  beast." 

Counsels  of  prudence  were  thrown  to  the  winds.  Her 
facile  successes  had  mounted  so  much  to  her  head  that 
she  felt  her  position  impregnable.  And  she  wanted  to 


no  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

bring  the  whole  matter  to  a  crisis.  Ever  since  she  had 
known  Sir  Carl  the  atmosphere  of  the  house  in  Rich- 
bourne  Terrace  had  been  growing  increasingly  chilly 
and  was  now  become  thick  with  suspicion  and  unfriend- 
liness. She  felt  that,  sooner  or  later,  there  would  have 
to  be  some  understanding.  To  the  voice,  inside  herself, 
which  suggested  caution — now  that  all  she  had  worked  for 
was  so  nearly  achieved — she  paid  no  attention.  Her 
brain  was  abnormally  excited  by  all  the  other  strange  and 
thrilling  and  intoxicating  things  which  had  happened  to 
her  during  the  past  three  months,  culminating  in  Ver- 
non's  proposal  after  the  Wilkinson's  dance.  How  delight- 
ful it  had  been  not  immediately  to  accept  him,  to  keep 
him  dangling  for  a  little  while  on  the  string.  She  knew 
that  at  any  moment  she  could  subside  into  his  arms  and 
make  him  the  happiest  man  in  London  by  so  doing.  It 
was  delicious  to  put  off  the  moment  whilst  allowing  him 
to  hope.  Margol!  glanced  around  her  beautiful  bedroom 
and  then  looked  at  herself  in  the  long  cheval  glass  in 
front  of  the  window.  She  looked  at  the  whiteness  of  her 
neck,  at  the  swell  of  her  bosom  and  her  narrow  hips  and 
long  legs  and  preened  herself  before  the  glass  in  her  love- 
ly frock.  She  thought  of  the  quiver  in  Vernon's  voice 
when  he  had  spoken  to  her  that  night  in  the  taxi,  of  the 
look  of  ecstasy  which  she  had  surprised  in  his  eyes  at 
Hurlingham  the  day  before,  when  they  strolled  together 
along  the  path  by  the  river.  How  he  had  shaken  all  over 
with  the  intensity  of  his  love!  Even  Godfrey  Levett, 
that  cynical  despiser  of  women,  had  very  nearly  been 
carried  off  his  feet  by  her  beauty.  Why  should  she  let 
herself  be  bullied  by  a  horrid  old  Jew  just  because  she 
happened  to  be  staying  in  London  at  his  expense !  It  was 
too  much  ;  she  would  show  him  that  she  could  stand  quite 
securely  on  her  own  two  feet,  and  was  not  dependent 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  in 

exclusively  on  his  protection.  The  luxury  to  which  he 
had  introduced  her  had  become  so  much  a  necessity  of 
her  nature  and  so  familiar  a  part  of  her  life  that  she 
could  not  realize  now  that  there  was  any  possibility  of  her 
ever  having  to  do  without  it.  In  thought  she  was  already 
Mrs.  Stokes,  already  mistress  of  a  house  in  Mayfair — on 
the  threshold  of  a  long  career  of  social  triumphs. 

She  waited  in  her  room  until  the  car  came  round  and 
she  saw  Mrs.  Falkenheim  enter  it  and  drive  off.  She 
was  a  little  surprised  that  Mrs.  Falkenheim  had  not  sent 
up  to  ask  if  she  could  deposit  her  at  Rachel's.  The  fact 
that  she  had  not  done  so  made  her  feel  vaguely  uneasy. 
She  went  out  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Falkenheim  had  gone,  and 
when  she  had  walked  a  few  yards  down  Richbourne 
Terrace  it  occurred  to  her  to  look  back  at  the  house. 
When  she  did  so  she  noticed  for  one  brief  moment  the 
white,  wrinkled  face  of  Israel  Falkenheim  looking  down 
at  her  from  the  drawing-room  window.  Something  in 
his  glance  made  her  shiver.  She  turned  quickly  and 
hurried  on. 

Margot  went  on  foot  to  Hyde  Park  Street  in  order  to 
be  able,  if  necessary,  to  establish  the  fact  that  she  had 
called  there.  Rachel  happened  to  be  in,  and  she  was 
shown  up  into  the  music-room.  She  told  her  friend  a 
little  of  what  had  happened,  and,  rather  to  her  disappoint- 
ment, she  thought  Rachel  did  not  seem  very  sympathetic. 

"Of  course,  one  does  rather  have  to  consider  the  feel- 
ings of  one's  host,  I  suppose,"  Rachel  murmured,  after 
she  had  heard  the  story.  Margot  felt  a  temptation  to  be 
voluble  in  her  own  defence,  but  the  motto  qui  s' excuse 
s'accuse  occurred  to  her  mind,  and  she  swallowed  her 
protestations. 

"Now  I  must  go,  darling,"  she  said.     "It  has  been 


ii2  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

jolly  to  see  you,  and  you  won't  forget  we've  bought  a  hat 
together,  will  you?" 

Rachel  smiled  at  her  dear  one  and  said  she  wouldn't 
forget.  Then,  just  as  Margot  was  leaving  the  room,  she 
went  over  to  her,  put  her  soft  arm  round  her  friend's 
neck,  and  kissed  her  quickly.  Margot  felt  vaguely 
troubled  as  she  disentangled  herself  and  went  down- 
stairs. .  .  . 

She  was  annoyed  with  Rachel  for  hinting  that  she 
ought  to  have  consulted  Israel  Falkenheim's  wishes  about 
Sir  Carl;  and  this  view,  coming  from  the  woman  who 
professed  so  much  affection  for  her,  made  her  appre- 
hensive. It  was,  however,  too  late  to  turn  back  now. 
She  got  into  an  open  taxi  and  told  the  man  to  drive 
across  the  Park  to  Belgrave  Square.  She  was  not  quite 
sure,  once  she  had  started,  and  the  taxi  had  begun  to 
mingle  with  the  throng  of  carriages  and  cars,  that  this 
was  not  an  idiotic  move  on  her  part.  Supposing  Lady 
Stokes  or  Vernon  or  the  Fawsett  Vivians  should  see  her ! 

She  was  almost  like  a  cat  in  her  love  of  sunshine  and 
warmth,  and  as  she  put  up  her  sunshade  and  felt  the 
heat  of  the  July  sun  on  her  body  through  her  thin  clothes, 
and  saw  the  hard,  sparkling  blue  of  the  sky,  the  dusty 
greenery  of  the  trees,  the  splendour  of  the  costumes  of 
the  women  who  drove  past  her,  she  was  pervaded  by  a 
sense  of  confidence  and  well-being.  By  the  time  she 
had  reached  Sir  Carl's  house  her  fears  had  almost  entire- 
ly subsided.  ...  A  shabby,  middle-aged  individual  with 
a  draggled  black  moustache  put  his  head  for  a  moment 
out  of  the  window  of  a  cab  and  watched  her  as  she  climb- 
ed the  steps.  She  wondered  why  he  was  so  interested  in 
her,  and  looked  instinctively  to  see  if  by  some  unfortun- 
ate accident  a  minute  hole  had  appeared  in  one  of  her 
silk  stockings.  .  .  .  Then  she  rang  the  bell. 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  113 

Sir  Carl  received  her  in  a  small  room  on  the  first  floor, 
opening  out  of  his  enormous  library.  The  library  oc- 
cupied the  whole  of  the  front  of  the  house,  and  had  evi- 
dently been  intended  by  the  architect  as  a  ballroom.  The 
ornamented  ceiling  was  supported  by  two  rows  of  marble 
pillars.  Above  the  carved,  black  oak  bookcases  the  walls 
were  a  dull  gold,  which  with  the  rich  reds  and  greens  of 
the  leather  bindings  of  the  books  gave  the  room  an  ap- 
pearance at  once  of  sumptuousness  and  solemnity.  What 
should  a  "financier"  want  with  all  these  books,  Margot 
wondered.  The  room  reminded  her  of  the  library  of 
Christ  Church,  Oxford,  which  Vernon  Stokes  had  mo- 
tored her  over  to  see  one  day. 

The  only  picture  in  the  great  room  was  a  magnificent 
Rembrandt,  which  brooded  over  the  heavy  marble 
chimneypiece.  The  parquet  floor  was  highly  polished  and 
slippery,  and  covered  here  and  there  with  Persian  rugs. 
The  furniture  was  massive  and  plain,  and  resembled  that 
of  a  man's  club  to  which  Margot  had  once  been  taken  as 
a  guest.  Through  the  immensely  tall  French  windows, 
two  of  which  were  standing  open,  she  could  see  the  trees 
of  Belgrave  Square  and  hear  the  whir  of  passing  motors ; 
the  curious  crunch  of  the  taxis  changing  gear;  the 
faint,  thrilling  murmur  of  London.  The  butler — a 
youngish,  dark-eyed  man,  swarthy  as  an  Italian  and 
much  more  like  a  good  waiter  at  the  Carlton  or  the  Savoy 
than  a  butler — piloted  her  slowly  across  the  library  till 
she  reached  the  small  square  door  in  the  wall  which  led 
into  the  cabinet. 

Sir  Carl  dragged  himself  to  his  feet  to  receive  his 
visitor,  and  stood  leaning  heavily  on  his  gold-headed 
malacca  cane,  just  as  he  had  leant  on  it  at  the  Fawsett 
Vivians'  when  she  had  first  met  him. 

"I  oughtn't  to  come  to  tea  with  you  like  this ;  I  know 


ii4  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

I  oughtn't!"  laughed  Margot,  giving  him  her  hand  with 
her  most  radiant  smile.  "But  I  just  can't  resist  coming 
to  see  your  lovely  house.  It's  like  being  in  a  fairy-tale 
to  anyone  like  me!" 

Sir  Carl  settled  himself  in  his  chair  when  he  had  made 
Margot  comfortable,  and  the  large  smoke-grey  Persian, 
which  had  been  dislodged  at  Margot's  arrival,  climbed 
back  with  solemn  dignity  on  to  his  master's  lap. 

"He  purs  fit  to  bust  himself,  doesn't  he?"  Margot 
remarked,  quaking  before  the  yellow,  basilisk  eyes  and 
venturing,  with  some  trepidation,  a  caress  that  was 
promptly  resented.  "It's  a  she,"  said  Sir  Carl.  "A 
Saturnian  mother,  who  doesn't  hesitate  to  devour  her 
young  when  they  displease  her!" 

"Ugh!"  said  Margot  in  disgust. 

"Not  at  all.  Drusilla  has  all  the  qualities  of  the  per- 
fect woman.  She  dislikes  everyone  except  her  lord  and 
master,  and  she  doesn't  even  allow  him  to  take 
liberties !" 

Drusilla  stopped  purring,  and  fixed  her  yellow  eyes 
with  the  tiny  streak  of  black  pupil  in  them  once  again 
on  Margot. 

"It's  charming  of  you,  my  dear,  to  come  and  see  an 
old  man  like  me,"  Frensen  remarked,  when  the  servants 
had  left  the  room  after  bringing  in  the  tea-table.  "I 
hope  there  weren't — difficulties." 

"There  were,"  said  Margot.    "Heaps !" 

This  reply  seem  to  send  Sir  Carl  into  convulsions  of 
silent  laughter.  He  grasped  his  red  beard,  and  his  eyes 
grew  watery  in  their  red  rims  as  he  struggled  with  his 
amusement. 

"Poor  Israel !"  he  remarked. 

"Why  did  you  quarrel  so  ?"  Margot  asked  inquisitively. 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  115 

Frensen  did  not  answer  her;  he  only  continued  to 
smile. 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  laugh,"  said  Margot, 
"but  it's  no  laughing  matter  for  me,  I  can  tell  you.  He 
is  pretty  well  all  I  have  to  cling  on  to,  and  the  thought 
that  I'm  coming  to  see  you  just  about  makes  him  mad." 

"Oh,  that  is  serious,"  said  Sir  Carl.  "You  mustn't 
run  into  any  trouble  on  my  account.  But  why  is  he  all 
you  have?  .  .  .  You  have  me." 

It  was  Margot's  turn  to  laugh.  "You  see,  I'm  being 
respectable !"  she  said. 

"That's  rather  silly,  isn't  it — for  anyone  as  beautiful 
as  you  are  ?  I  may  be  old,  but  I  would  make  you  happier 
than  your  respectability.  I  would  do  a  lot  for  you, 
Margot.  ...  I  would  take  you  to  all  the  places  in  the 
world  that  are  worth  looking  at — to  Deauville,  to  the 
Riviera,  to  Rome,  Petersburg,  Vienna.  ..." 

"I  should  faint,  or  get  up  and  hit  you,  if  I  were  one 
of  these  English  girls!"  Margot  exclaimed.  "You  talk 
like  Satan  in  the  Bible  when  he  took  Christ  up  to  the 
pinnacle  of  the  temple !" 

Frensen  chuckled  softly.  "Ah!  but  you  are  not  one 
of  them ;  you  have  far  too  many  brains  to  be  an  English 
'miss.'  And  you  enjoy  the  spectacle  of  wealth  too 
frankly  to  have  been  used  to  it  for  long." 

"You've  got  eyes !"  said  Margot  with  admiration. 

He  put  his  hand  gently  on  her  arm,  then  held  it  tightly 
in  his.  She  felt  his  fingers  pressing  into  her  flesh  through 
the  stuff. 

"Yes." 

She  looked  at  him.  She  didn't  dislike  him  in  the  least 
for  wanting  her  to  be  his  mistress.  There  was  something 
about  him  that  was  outside  and  beyond  conventional 
morality,  and  therefore  exciting.  She  suddenly  felt  that 


n6  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

she  wanted  him  to  admire  some  of  her  splendid  lies. 
The  need  to  tell  him  the  truth  became  irresistible. 

"What  do  you  think  I  am,  then?"  she  asked. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "you  come  from  Canada  and  you 
are  very  lovely ;  and  you  are  not  a  Jewess.  Beyond  that 
I  haven't  really  speculated.  You  can't  be  a  big  fortune 
— forgive  me — or  you  would  certainly  not  be  dependent 
on  friend  Israel!" 

"No,  I  am  not  a  big  fortune,"  said  Margot.  "I'm  a 
grocer's  daughter,  and  a  poor  one  at  that.  My  father 
was  a  very  small  grocer;  I've  got  about  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  in  the  bank,  and  I  believe  I'm  going 
to  be  married,  if  nothing  goes  wrong.  We  can  be  great 
friends  when  I'm  married.  My  husband  will  be  so  rich 
you  won't  need  to  look  down  on  me." 

"Ah,  I'm  a  banker,  I  know,  but  in  spite  of  that  I 
might  conceivably  look  down  on  you  less  still  if  you 
married  a  poor  man." 

Margot  looked  at  him  with  uneasiness,  as  though  he 
were  chaffing  her  in  some  way  which  she  could  not  quite 
understand. 

"I  mean  it!"  he  said. 

"You  aren't  going  to  tell  me  you  are  a  sentimentalist," 
she  began. 

"Oh,  no,  but  I  believe  in  love,  and  still  more  in  pas- 
sion. Passion  is  the  fire  of  life,  and  when  we  leave  it 
or  it  leaves  us  we  go  cold  and  die.  You  know  there 
can  be  a  passion  of  hate,"  he  added.  "At  least  you  ought 
to!  .  .  .  Have  you  ever  loved  anyone,  Margot?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  Of  course,  I've  been  fond  of 
people,"  Margot  confessed.  "What  a  funny  question!" 

"Give  me  your  hands  for  a  moment,"  he  asked.  Mar- 
got  suppressed  a  temptation  to  be  arch  and  held  out 
her  carefully  manicured  and  rather  well-shaped  hands. 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  117 

Sir  Carl  held  the  tips  of  her  fingers  in  his  cold  grasp 
and  stared  intently  at  her  palms,  and  then  at  the  knuckles 
at  the  back  of  her  hands,  while  Margot  watched  him 
furtively  with  a  sidelong,  upward  glance.  "My  dear," 
he  said  at  last,  "I  don't  know  from  the  look  of  your 
hands  whether  you  will  really  make  a  quite  successful 
adventuress !  If  you  go  too  near  that  fire  I  told  you  of 
your  wings  may  get  scorched." 

"Well,  I  haven't  made  an  ass  of  myself  in  that  way 
yet,"  said  Margot  rather  huffily,  "and  I'm  twenty-three 
and  I've  had  heaps  of  time." 

"Look  out  when  you  have  been  married  two  or  three 
years  and  are  twenty-six  or  seven,"  said  the  old  man 
lightly.  "Come  and  tell  me  then  if  you  are  in  any  trou- 
ble. I  may  be  able  to  help." 

"All  right,  I  will,"  said  Margot.  "I'll  keep  you  to  it, 
mind!  Specially  as  my  coming  to  see  you  has  probably 
done  me  in  good  and  proper  with  the  Falkenheims." 

"Poor  Israel !"  said  Frensen,  reflectively.  He  sat  back 
in  his  chair,  with  his  hands  on  the  gold  knob  of  his  ma- 
lacca  cane,  staring  in  front  of  him  out  of  his  red  eyes. 
Margot  felt  herself  in  the  presence  of  some  story  which 
dwarfed  her  own,  which  made  all  her  little  schemes  seem 
unimportant.  She  divined  the  passions  to  which  the 
old  man  had  referred — those  fierce,  volcanic  emotions 
of  which  she  had  read,  but  with  which  she  had  hitherto 
never  come  into  contact.  What  had  happened  between 
him  and  Israel  Falkenheim  to  cause  Israel's  extraordi- 
nary hatred?  She  felt  convinced  that  whatever  had  hap- 
pened, Israel  had  been  the  injured  party — had  been  the 
one  to  suffer.  She  concluded  it  must  have  been  some 
question  of  money,  since  everyone  knew  that  cash  was 
all  the  Jews  cared  about.  But  if  it  was  only  that,  why 
had  Mrs.  Falkenheim  been  so  upset  on  the  evening  of 


ii8  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

the  Fawsett  Vivians'  dance  ?  She  wasn't  specially  money- 
grubbing,  and  in  any  case  she  had  everything  she 
wanted.  .  .  . 

The  butler  and  a  footman  came  back  to  carry  away 
the  tea  things,  and  Sir  Carl's  reverie  ended.  He  offered 
Margot  a  cigarette,  .and  his  eyes  gloated  over  the  open- 
ing of  her  red  lips  and  the  tightening  of  her  frock  over 
her  bosom  as  she  leaned  forward  to  take  a  light.  He 
got  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  from  her  movements,  and 
would  have  liked  it  if  he  could  have  persuaded  her  to 
do  exercises  in  front  of  him,  so  that  he  could  lie  back  in 
his  chair  and  watch  her  limbs  in  action.  He  felt  sud- 
denly very  old  and  tired — but  he  still  had  sufficient  grip 
on  life  to  be  perpetually  interested.  Margot's  vitality  was 
a  tonic  to  him.  Her  youth  and  vigour,  her  look  of  health, 
all  appealed  to  him,  and  he  was  curious  about  the  secrets 
of  her  character.  It  gave  him  a  kind  of  sensual  satis- 
faction to  probe  her  mind,  to  try  to  discover  her  inmost 
thoughts  and  emotions.  It  was  one  of  the  few  amuse- 
ments he  had  left,  -and  he  was  willing  to  do  much  to 
gratify  it.  His  mind  had  unexpected  compartments,  and 
in  the  course  of  a  life  almost  entirely  spent  amid  im- 
portant happenings,  in  dealings  with  the  great,  and  in  a 
somewhat  rarefied  intellectual  atmosphere,  it  was  now 
a  delight  to  him  to  occupy  himself  with  the  thoughts  and 
plans  of  a  pretty  grocers'  daughter  embarked  on  an  ad- 
venture. Even  Caesar  had  his  relaxations.  .  .  . 

Margot,  on  her  side,  was  flattered  by  his  interest,  ner- 
vous of  what  he  might  "do  next,"  impressed  by  his 
eminence.  At  the  same  time,  she  felt  ashamed  of  her- 
self for  having  gone  against  Israel  Falkenheim's  wishes 
by  coming  to  see  him,  and  apprehensive  of  the  results. 
After  all,  she  was  not  yet  Mrs.  Veraon  Stokes.  There 
was  plenty  of  time  for  the  proverbial  "slip." 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  119 

She  threw  away  her  cigarette  and  got  up  to  go. 

"You  must  come  and  see  me  again,"  said  Sir  Carl. 
"We  must  have  dinner  together  one  night  and  go  to  the 
Opera.  .  .  ." 

"I  should  like  to,"  Margot  answered — "when  I'm  set- 
tled!" She  laughed  at  him  and  gave  him  her  hand. 
As  she  turned  to  go,  the  tall  handle  of  her  sunshade 
knocked  a  heavy  silver  photograph  frame  off  the  top 
of  a  buhl  cabinet  which  stood  by  the  side  of  Sir  Carl's 
chair. 

"There,  what  a  clumsy  fool  I  am,"  she. said,  as  she 
stooped  to  pick  it  up.  "And  the.glass  is  all  broken,  too!" 
She  put  the  photograph  back  on  the  cabinet,  examining 
it  as  she  did  so.  It  was  a  very  old  photograph,  and 
showed  a  handsome  woman  of  about  thirty,  with  strongly 
marked  Jewish  features.  Margot  could  not  repress  a 
gasp  of  astonishment. 

"Why !"  she  said  to  herself,  as  the  butler  appeared  in 
answer  to  Frensen's  ring.  "Why,  I'll  be  hanged  if  that 
isn't  Mrs.  Falkenheim  as  a  young  woman!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

As  Margot's  taxi  re-crossed  the  Park — gay  in  the 
afternoon  sunshine  and  more  crowded  than  ever — she 
experienced  once  again  a  curious  feeling  of  apprehen- 
sion. In  spite  of  the  heat  of  the  day  she  gave  a  slight 
shiver.  There  was  something  sinister  about  Sir  Carl 
Frensen,  something  curious  about  the  Falkenheims.  Why 
had  Mrs.  Falkenheim's  photograph  been  in  Sir  Carl's 
study,  since  they  were  such  enemies?  Perhaps  years 
ago  there  had  been  an  "affair"  between  them,  and  that 
was  why  Israel  hated  him  so!  .  .  . 

Margot  felt  all  on  a  sudden  very  lonely  and  very 
homesick  for  people  of  her  own  kind,  whom  she  had 
never  known.  Even  Rachel  was  really  a  stranger  to 
her  and  lived  in  a  world  apart.  When  she  had  paid 
the  taxi  and  rung  the  bell,  she  waited  outside  the  heavy 
double  doors  of  the  house  in  Richbourne  Terrace  with 
a  kind  of  dread.  The  footman,  a  white-faced,  rather 
furtive  youth  who  looked  as  though  he  spent  his  time 
hanging  about  with  the  housemaids,  seemed  to  glance 
at  her  with  ominous  intentness  when  he  opened  the  door 
— a  kind  of  insolent  curiosity. 

The  house,  as  she  entered  it,  seemed  empty,  silent, 
threatening.  She  asked  if  there  were  anyone  in  the 
drawing-room  and  was  told  that  there  was  no  one  there. 
Mrs.  Falkenheim  was  in,  but  "engaged." 

Margot  went  upstairs  thoughtfully  to  her  room,  feel- 
ing rather  like  a  naughty  child  conscious  of  having 
been  in  the  jam  cupboard  and  fearful  of  having  left 
tell-tale  traces.  Whatever  was  in  store  for  her,  she  was 

120 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  121 

anxious  to  get  it  over.  She  wondered  what  Mrs.  Falken- 
heim  was  "engaged"  in. 

When  she  reached  her  bedroom  she  was  surprised  to 
hear  the  sound  of  voices  and  the  noise  of  a  drawer  being 
rather  violently  closed.  She  paused  for  an  instant  with 
one  hand  on  the  door-knob,  her  heart  nearly  stopping. 
Then  she  went  in,  and  to  her  amazement  saw  Marie 
handing  out  her  clothes  from  the  wardrobe  to  Waters 
the  housemaid,  who  was  folding  them  up.  Waters  was 
kneeling  on  the  floor  by  the  side  of  one  of  her  steamer 
trunks,  which  was  already  half  full  of  her  things.  Mar- 
got  paused  and  gazed  at  the  two  women  in  amazement. 
"What  are  you  doing?"  she  said.  In  a  moment  she  could 
have  bitten  out  her  tongue. 

"We  were  told  that  Mademoiselle  wished  to  have  her 
things  packed,"  said  Marie  in  equal  astonishment.  "We 
shall  have  finished  in  a  very  few  minutes  now.  There 
is  a  note  for  Mademoiselle  on  the  dressing-table." 

Margot  snatched  the  envelope,  and  saw  at  once  that 
it  was  in  Israel  Falkenheim's  handwriting. 

"That  is  quite  all  right,  Marie,"  she  said,  in  as  normal 
a  voice  as  possible.  "The  only  thing  is  that  I  probably 
shan't  want  the  luggage  moved  till  to-morrow.  How- 
ever, you  may  as  well  finish  now  you  have  begun.  .  .  ." 

She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass  for  a  moment, 
straightened  her  hat,  arranged  her  veil,  pouted,  and 
walked  slowly  out  of  the  room  with  the  eyes  of  the  two 
maids  boring  round  holes  in  her  smartly  tailored  back. 
Once  on  the  landing,  with  her  bedroom  closed,  she 
looked  around  for  a  moment,  like  a  startled  animal,  then 
darted  into  the  bath-room,  bolting  the  door  behind  her, 
and  sank  down  on  the  wooden  form  which  stood  against 
the  wall  facing  the  bath.  She  tore  open  the  envelope 
with  nervous  fingers.  A  cheque  and  two  five-pound  notes 


122  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

fell  out  of  the  letter  on  to  her  lap.  "Mr.  Israel  Fal- 
kenheim,"  she  read,  "regrets  that  he  cannot  extend  his 
hospitality  to  Miss  Carter  beyond  to-day.  He  begs  that 
she  will  accept  his  cheque  for  £100  and  also  the  smaller 
sum  in  cash  which  he  encloses  for  her  immediate  ex- 
penses." 

Her  face  went  quite  white  when  she  realised  the  mean- 
ing of  the  letter  which  she  held  in  her  hand.  In  some 
way  he  must  have  managed  to  have  her  followed  to  Bel- 
grave  Square!  He  could  not  have  done  this  merely  on 
suspicion.  The  idea  came  to  her  to  insist  on  seeing  him, 
to  try  to  bluff  the  matter  out  and  deny  that  she  had 
visited  Sir  Carl,  bringing  in  Rachel  to  give  evidence  in 
corroboration  of  her  story.  But  after  a  moment's  reflec- 
tion she  saw  that  this  was  hopeless.  No  one  as  cautious 
as  Israel  Falkenheim  would  have  acted  as  drastically  as 
this  without  proof.  .  .  .  Suddenly  she  recalled  the 
creature  with  the  black  moustache  who  had  put  his  head 
out  of  a  cab  and  watched  her  going  up  the  steps  to  Sir 
Carl's  house.  Why,  of  course,  that  man  must  have  been 
a  detective  sent  to  follow  her!  The  thought  seemed  to 
stun  her.  She  remained  sitting  on  the  wooden  form  star- 
ing at  the  shining  bath-taps,  at  the  polished  mahogany 
sides  of  the  bath,  at  its  inviting  porcelain  depths,  at  the 
floor  of  green  mosaic  and  the  blue-tiled  walls  of  the 
room.  She  was  dazed,  incapable  of  thought  or  action, 
and  it  was  some  time  before  she  could  pull  herself  suf- 
ficiently together  to  think  out  what  to  do.  To  be  turned 
suddenly  on  the  streets  like  a  dismissed  servant,  to  be 
hunted,  spied  on  like  some  forger — it  was  abominable! 
All  that  the  Falkenheims  had  already  done  for  her 
seemed  to  give  her  an  unanswerable  claim  on  them  to  do 
more.  A  passion  of  fury  welled  up  in  her  heart  as  she 
read  Israel  Falkenheim's  letter.  Its  brevity,  its  reference 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  123 

to  "Miss  Carter,"  the  insulting  way  in  which  she  was 
being  bought  off  for  a  paltry  £100,  all  infuriated  her  to 
fever  pitch.  She  leapt  to  her  feet  at  last,  hastily  un- 
bolted the  door,  and  strode  out  on  to  the  landing.  Then, 
as  she  stood  on  the  soft  carpet,  watched  the  highly-pol- 
ished bedroom  doors  all  around  her,  and  thought  of  the 
comfort  to  which  they  gave  access,  her  heart  seemed  to 
turn  to  water  inside  her,  and  she  could  have  wept  with 
despair  at  her  own  folly.  She  again  debated  in  her 
mind  whether  she  should  go  down  and  beard  Israel  in 
his  study  or  burst  in  on  Mrs.  Falkenheim  and  demand  an 
explanation.  Finally,  she  decided  that  it  would  pay  her 
best  not  to  have  any  scenes.  She  would  be  dignified, 
hurt.  She  would  show  the  Falkenheims  how  well  she 
could  get  along  without  them.  .  .  . 

She  went  into  her  bedroom  again,  where  Marie  and 
Waters  were  just  finishing  packing  her  evening  frocks. 
She  gave  instructions  that  her  necessary  things  for  two 
or  three  nights  should  be  put  into  a  small  suit-case, 
locked  it  as  well  as  her  trunks,  and  remarked  that  she 
would  be  "back  again  later."  The  black  glances  of  Ma- 
rie, who  saw  herself  being  defrauded  of  her  tip,  did 
something  to  lessen  Margot's  gloom  as  she  walked 
thoughtfully  down  the  great  staircase  and  let  herself  out 
into  the  street. 

The  heavy  cars  were  swooping — opulent  and  majes- 
tic— up  and  down  the  broad  road,  bearing  their  occu- 
pants back  from  making  calls  in  time  for  them  to  dress 
for  their  dinner-parties.  Society  was  terminating  its  aft- 
ernoon duties,  preparing  for  its  evening  pleasures. 

Margot  remembered  with  a  sharp  stab  of  irritation 
that  there  was  to  be  a  dinner-party  that  night  at  the 
Falkenheims'  at  which  people  she  knew — the  Fawsett 
Vivians  and  others,  but  luckily  not  Vernon  Stokes — were 


124  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

to  be  present.  And  in  a  week's  time  Mrs.  Falkenheim 
was  giving  a  dance,  ostensibly  in  her  honour.  The  in- 
vitations had  been  sent  out  over  a  month  ago!  How 
were  they  going  to  explain  her  absence?  What  infam- 
ous stories  would  they  tell  about  her?  What  could  she 
say  that  would  explain  her  hurried  departure?  Nobody, 
she  reflected,  ever  believes  the  stories  the  poor  tell  about 
the  rich.  .  .  . 

She  had  reached  the  Park  before  she  had  come  to 
any  decision  as  to  what  to  do.  Soon  it  would  be  dinner- 
time. The  heat  of  the  day  had  worn  off,  and  the  Park 
was  delicious,  enticing,  a  green  fairyland  with  lengthen- 
ing shadows.  She  entered  it  by  the  ornamental  stone 
"waterworks"  at  the  end  of  the  Serpentine,  and  walked 
to  where  the  early- Victorian  nymphs  clasped  broken 
stone  pitchers  to  their  breasts.  She  stood  there,  deep  in 
thought,  glancing  down  every  now  and  then  at  the  placid 
ducks  engaged  in  their  evening  amusement  of  turning 
slowly  upside  down.  The  chestnut  trees  on  her  left  were 
a  heavy,  languorous  green — suggestive  of  warmth,  sleep, 
laziness.  And  looking  back  towards  the  tall  stone  shelter 
with  its  wooden  panelling  and  uncomfortable  broad  seat, 
Margot  was  recalled  to  earth  by  noticing  a  young  man, 
presumably  a  clerk  or  shop-boy,  kissing  a  girl,  who 
might  have  been  a  domestic  servant  on  her  evening  out. 
They  remained  for  some  minutes  with  their  arms  round 
one  another — oblivious  of  time  and  place,  absorbed.  Mar- 
got  watched  them  with  interest,  almost  with  envy.  Love 
was  an  extraordinary  mystery!  She  felt  that  it  must 
indeed  have  all  the  magic  that  was  claimed  for  it,  if  it 
could  make  two  such  down-at-heel  individuals  behave 
like  that  in  that  public  place,  and  look  so  happy  over 
it.  ... 

She  turned  and  walked  back  on  to  the  gravel  path, 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  125 

past  the  flower-beds,  to  the  road.  The  thought  came  to 
her  to  call  on  Rachel,  but  somehow  she  felt  disinclined 
to  do  this.  Rachel  had  been  so  very  firm  about  the  "du- 
ties one  owed  to  one's  host,"  and  had  not  seemed  to  ap- 
prove of  the  visit  to  Carl  Frensen  which  had  precipita- 
ted matters.  She  compromised  by  going  to  the  telephone- 
box  at  Lancaster  Gate  Station  and  ringing  Rachel  up. 

"Can  I  see  you  for  a  moment  or  two  ?"  she  asked.  "I 
may  be  going  away  to-morrow,  and  I  should  like  to  say 
good-bye  before  I  go." 

"My  dearest,"  Rachel  replied,  "what  can  I  do?  I'm 
in  the  middle  of  dressing ;  I'm  going  out  to  dine  and  then 
to  the  play,  and  I'm  already  fearfully  late  as  it  is.  Do 
come  around  in  the  morning,  though,  and  tell  me  about 
it.  It  doesn't  matter  how  early.  .  .  ." 

Margot  put  down  the  receiver  and  wondered  what  she 
had  better  do  next.  She  felt  unreasonably  furious  with 
Sir  Carl  for  having  encouraged  her  to  embroil  herself 
with  the  Falkenheims.  It  was  all  his  fault.  He  had  just 
made  use  of  her  to  pursue  his  stupid  quarrel.  Oh,  it 
was  maddening!  But  what  was  she  to  do?  If  she  rang 
up  Levett  or  went  to  his  house  she  took  it  for  granted, 
in  her  crude  Colonial  way,  that  he  would  take  an  unfair 
advantage  of  her  predicament  and  try  at  once  to  make 
love  to  her,  to  compromise  her.  Vernon  she  could  not 
possibly  consult.  At  all  costs  he  must  be  prevented  from 
knowing  the  truth  about  what  had  happened.  Her  heart 
almost  stopped  beating  when  she  thought  of  Vernon. 
Her  mortification  was  so  intense  that  her  face  became 
drawn  and  white,  as  though  through  physical  pain.  But 
she  would  not  let  the  cup  be  dashed  from  her  lips  like 
this.  She  would  have  him  yet,  in  spite  of  Israel.  Come 
what  might,  she  would  have  him ! 

It  was  now  after  seven  o'clock,  and  Margot's  feeling 


126  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

of  nervousness  began  to  increase  Where  was  she  to  go 
to  spend  the  night  ?  It  would  not  do  at  all  for  her  to  go 
down  to  Dorsetshire  at  once  and  throw  herself  on  Adam 
Henderson's  mercy;  nor  could  she  have  got  a  train  so 
late.  The  Hendersons  were  her  only  hope  now;  if  they 
failed  her  she  would  indeed  be  lost.  She  would  have 
to  play  them  carefully,  in  order  that  her  willingness  to 
visit  them  might  appear  in  the  nature  of  a  condescension 
and  that  they  should  not  guess  the  extremity  in  which 
she  found  herself.  To  arrange  this  meant  staying  a  night 
or  two  somewhere  in  London.  But  where?  Rachel 
couldn't  have  her,  that  was  evident,  and  she  knew  noth- 
ing of  London  hotels.  She  did  not  even  know  whether 
it  was  possible  for  a  single  woman  to  stay  in  one  alone. 
She  thought  of  the  Paddington  Hotel,  but  it  was  hor- 
ribly near  Richbourne  Terrace ;  then  of  the  hotel  at  Vic- 
toria, but  she  remembered  that  friends  of  Vernon's  some- 
times stayed  there,  .  .  .  Charing  Cross  somehow 
did  not  appeal  to  her,  nor  Euston.  Without  having  ever 
seen  it  or  realising  in  the  least  in  what  part  of  London 
it  was  situated,  she  hailed  a  taxi  and  told  the  man  to 
drive  her  to  St.  Pancras. 

Margot's  heart  sank  when  she  reached  the  vast  red 
pseudo-Gothic  station,  and  for  a  moment  she  wondered 
if,  at  the  hotel,  they  might  refuse  her  admittance.  They 
didn't  do  so,  however.  She  was  provided  with  a  room 
and  dined  miserably  in  the  great  restaurant,  after  hav- 
ing sent  one  of  the  hotel  servants  in  a  taxi  for  her  lug- 
gage. Soon  after  her  trunks  had  arrived,  she  went  up- 
stairs to  her  bedroom,  to  escape  from  the  disapproving 
eyes  of  wives  of  beneficed  clergymen. 

The  utter  bleakness  and  loneliness  of  the  room  struck 
a  chill  to  her  heart,  and  she  knew  that  when  she  un- 
dressed and  went  to  bed  she  would  begin  to  cry.  Luckily, 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  12? 

she  had  a  good  deal  to  do  first  before  she  could  allow 
herself  to  collapse.  She  had  bought  some  plain  note- 
paper,  and  proceeded  to  write  first  to  Rachel,  then  to 
Vernon  Stokes — heading  her  letters,  as  usual,  "17  Rich- 
bourne  Terrace" — to  tell  them  that  she  was  off  to  spend 
a  few  days  in  the  country,  as  she  was  feeling  rather 
tired.  She  added  that  she  might  possibly  decide  to  pro- 
long her  stay,  but  that  in  any  case  she  would  write  again 
to  let  them  know.  Then,  having  as  it  were  burned  her 
boats,  she  wrote  a  careful  letter  to  Adam  Henderson 
suggesting  coming  down  to  him  on  Friday  for  a  short 
visit.  "It's  Wednesday  to-day,"  she  reflected,  "and  it 
means  waiting  here  a  whole  day  and  two  nights !"  The 
thought  appalled  her,  but  she  could  see  no  other  way 
out  of  the  difficulty. 

She  took  her  letters  down  to  be  posted  and  returned 
to  her  desolate  numbered  bedroom,  with  its  remorseless 
electric  light  and  frigid  bed.  To  try  to  sleep  would  be 
merely  a  farce.  How  could  she  live  through  the  agonis- 
ing suspense  of  the  next  two  days?  If  she  made  one 
false  move,  what  would  become  of  her?  Surely  the 
good  fortune  which  had  brought  her  to  the  brink  of  suc- 
cess would  not  utterly  desert  her  now  in  punishment 
for  one  solitary  indiscretion!  Oh,  what  a  fool  she  had 
been — what  a  hopeless  fool ! 

As  she  lay  with  her  head  on  the  hot  pillow,  turning 
restlessly  from  one  side  of  her  bed  to  the  other,  the 
thought  of  her  recklessness  and  its  results  seared  her 
like  corrosive  acid. 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

PART  II 


CHAPTER  XII 

MARGOT  managed  to  fall  asleep,  after  hours  of  nerv- 
ous misery  which  seemed  interminable,  just  before  the 
dawn.  She  slept  heavily  until  after  nine  o'clock.  When 
she  awoke  she  had  a  splitting  headache,  and  felt  in  a 
state  of  thorough  fright  and  dejection.  The  pattern  of 
the  wall-paper,  the  carpet,  and  the  furniture  of  the  room 
— so  like  a  specimen  bedroom  in  a  big  furniture  store — 
made  her  shudder  with  nervousness.  She  was  in  ati 
institution,  was  known  by  a  number,  and  answerable  to 
an  impersonal  management  who  was  quite  indifferent 
as  to  her  fate.  She  longed  at  this  moment  for  Rachel 
to  come  into  the  room  and  mother  her.  She  would  have 
enjoyed  crying  for  a  few  minutes  on  Rachel's  bosom 
and  being  kissed.  She  remembered  that  there  was  some- 
thing comforting  about  Rachel's  arms,  just  as  there  was 
something  thrilling  about  Levett's.  She  felt  utterly  lone- 
ly. It  was  horrible  to  have  to  get  up  without  help  and  to 
walk  down  a  corridor  to  a  strange  bath;  and  when  she 
went  down  to  breakfast  in  the  restaurant  by  herself  she 
felt  convicted  as  an  adventuress — discovered.  After 
breakfast  she  wandered  out  into  the  Euston  Road.  On 
the  hot  pavement  drab-looking  men  and  women  jostled 
her.  Everyone  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry  and  to  be  out 
of  humour.  The  faces  she  saw,  even  the  carts  and  om- 
nibuses, seemed  different  from  the  ones  with  which  she 
was  familiar,  and  the  look  of  the  hotels,  standing  back 
from  the  road  at  the  end  of  dusty  front  gardens,  which 
offered  "Bed  and  breakfast"  for  35.  6d.,  was  sinister  and 
disquieting. 

131 


132  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

She  realised  now  how  ignorant  she  was  of  London. 
Since  she  had  been  staying  in  Bayswater  she  had  only 
seen  a  fraction  of  the  vast  town — just  the  few  streets 
devoted  to  the  rich.  All  around  those  streets  there  were 
unexplored  regions,  strange  centres  of  activity  into  which 
she  had  never  penetrated — intimate,  ancient  slums;  the 
real  London.  As  she  walked  on  she  passed  a  small 
grocer's  shop  at  the  top  of  Great  Portland  Street.  Be- 
hind the  counter,  selling  a  quarter-packet  of  tea  to  an 
old  woman  with  a  black  shawl  over  her  shoulder,  was 
a  fair  girl  with  good-natured  face,  shining  nose,  and 
an  air  of  efficiency.  She  was  not  unlike  a  commonplace 
edition  of  Margot,  and  something  about  her  riveted  Mar- 
got's  attention.  She  stood  stock  still  and  stared  into 
the  shop  until  at  last  the  girl  looked  up  and  noticed  her 
and  stared  back,  aggressively — angry  at  the  insolence  of 
the  wealthy-looking  young  woman  outside  who  looked 
so  prosperous  in  her  well-cut  coat  and  skirt  and  smart 
hat.  Margot  hurried  on,  confused,  and  ashamed  of  her 
bad  manners.  She  kept  saying  to  herself,  "Have  I  sprung 
from  that,  and  shall  I  sink  back  into  it?"  The  fear  of 
such  a  possibility  made  her  clench  her  fists  and  walk 
more  swiftly.  She  was  a  mystery  to  herself.  She  often 
wondered  what  it  was  in  her  that  kept  driving  her  on; 
what  had  made  her  so  discontented  with  Price  Street; 
what  had  enabled  her  to  escape.  Whatever  it  was,  es- 
caped she  had,  and  there  could  be  no  going  back.  Her 
anger  against  Israel  Falkenheim,  against  Carl  Frensen, 
and  with  herself  for  her  folly,  surged  up  again  in  her 
heart  and  lent  her  the  strength  of  ten.  She  would  show 
Israel  that  she  was  not  dependent  on  him;  she  would 
show  him!  She  had  come  now  to  Regent  Crescent, 
and  looking  to  the  left  into  Portland  Place  could  almost 
sec  the  Fawsett  Vivians'  front  door.  Good  heavens! 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  133 

What  ages  ago  it  seemed  to  her  now,  that  far-off  dance ! 
She  did  not  want  to  go  by  the  Vivians',  but  turned  in- 
stead to  the  right,  passing  a  row  of  sumptuous  houses 
with  glistening  green  front  doors  and  cream-painted  fa- 
gades  adorned  with  flattened  columns.  When  she  came 
to  the  gate  of  the  Park  she  went  in  and  began  walking 
swiftly  across  its  unknown  expanses  towards  the  canal. 
She  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  herself,  but  quick 
walking  brought  her  relief  by  tiring  her.  As  she  crossed 
the  most  unromantic  of  London's  parks,  her  thoughts 
luxuriated  on  the  size  and  strangeness  of  London.  For 
the  greater  part  of  her  life,  behind  the  counter  in  Price 
Street,  she  had  dreamt  dreams  about  London :  and  here 
it  was.  And  for  months  past  she — Maggie  Carter — had 
been  moving  among  the  London  nobs,  the  biggest  swells 
in  the  whole  world,  just  like  one  of  themselves!  She 
did  not  pursue  this  line  of  thought  at  present — it  led 
round  to  painful  actualities — but  went  back  to  the  out- 
ward, visible  characteristics  of  her  heaven.  She  knew 
almost  all  the  London  monuments  from  picture  postcards 
or  from  reading  descriptions  of  them  in  novels,  so  that 
every  inch  of  the  great  town  had  a  glamour  for  her — 
a  glamour  that  was  still  untarnished.  She  thought  of 
going  to  see  the  Tower  of  London  and  the  Tower  Bridge, 
or  possibly  St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  She  had  seen  the 
Albert  Memorial  once  when  she  had  been  driving  to 
a  party  with  Mrs.  Falkenheim,  and  again  one  Sunday 
afternoon  when  they  had  all  gone  to  a  concert  in  the 
Albert  Hall.  She  had  also  "done"  Westminster  Abbey ; 
but  she  had  never  penetrated  further  east  than  Charing 
Cross.  The  mysterious  "city"  (that  vulgar  spot  where 
all  the  money  came  from)  was  unknown  country,  and 
as  she  walked  across  Regent's  Park  the  idea  came  to 
her  to  get  into  a  cab  and  drive  to  Lombard  Street  to 


134  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

look  at  the  banks.  There  was  something  about  the  very 
name  of  Lombard  Street  which  went  to  her  head.  She 
had  read  somewhere  that  it  was  the  richest  street  in  the 
world,  and  she  had  an  insatiable  natural  craving  for 
everything  that  was  superlative.  She  wanted  to  occupy 
the  largest  house  in  the  greatest  capital  of  the  most 
important  Empire  on  the  earth,  and  she  wanted  to  be 
the  greatest  lady  in  that  capital — hence  her  interest  in 
the  biggest  banks,  where  the  hugest  sums  of  money  were 
kept,  as  it  were,  on  tap.  She  visualised  them  as  vast 
palaces  in  the  classic  style — veritable  temples  to  the 
Money  God — where  rows  of  clerks  sat  before  open  draw- 
ers full  of  sovereigns  into  which  they  dug  all  day  long 
with  little  copper  shovels.  And  the  drawers  never  got 
any  emptier.  Day  after  day  the  shovels  would  dig  into 
the  pile  of  yellow  sovereigns,  but  the  pile  would  in  some 
mysterious  way  always  be  as  large  as  ever.  When  night 
came,  hundreds  of  lamps  under  green  shades  would  shed 
light  on  miles  of  sloping  mahogany  desks  where  armies 
of  clerks,  sitting  with  leather-bound  ledgers  open  in 
front  of  them,  would  add  up  the  fortunes  of  the  wealthy. 
How  lovely  it  would  be,  she  thought,  to  have  a  row 
of  clerks  employed  in  adding  up  one's  money!  She 
took  from  her  bag  the  green  slip  which  Israel  Falken- 
heim  had  given  her  the  day  before,  and  noticed  that  the 
cheque  was  drawn  on  the  head  office  of  one  of  the  most 
famous  banks  in  the  world,  which  happened  actually  to 
be  in  Lombard  Street.  This  decided  her,  and  she  hur- 
ried out  of  the  park  at  Hanover  Gate,  stopped  the  first 
taxi  she  came  across,  and  told  him  to  drive  to  Lombard 
Street. 

She  was  not  yet  sufficiently  blase  to  have  grown  tired 
of  driving  about  London  even  in  the  humble  taxi,  and 
whilst  she  was  being  hurried  through  the  warm  July  air, 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  135 

amid  the  roar  and  dust  of  the  great  city,  first  of  all  down 
Park  Road  to  Baker  Street,  then  down  Marylebone  Road 
into  Euston  Road,  past  St.  Pancras  and  King's  Cross, 
then  through  a  network  of  mean  streets  till  the  driver, 
not  perhaps  going  the  quickest  way,  came  suddenly  to 
Ludgate  Circus,  she  forgot  all  about  her  anxieties  in 
the  sheer  excitement  of  the  drive.  Whilst  the  cab,  wedged 
in  between  motor  omnibuses,  drays,  other  taxis,  and  big 
lorries,  went  slowly  up  the  famous  hill,  Margot  found 
herself  being  introduced  in  the  most  thrilling  manner 
possible  to  St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  When  at  last  the  splen- 
dour of  the  great  building,  surmounted  by  its  prodigious 
dome,  dawned  on  her  wide-open  blue  eyes,  she  found 
herself  almost  gasping  for  breath;  her  red  lips  parted 
as  if  to  make  an  exclamation.  She  had  never  seen 
anything  so  magnificent,  so  grandiose,  and  yet  so  old. 
As  she  looked  up  at  St.  Paul's  she  realised  for  the  first 
time  that  the  English  were  a  wealthy,  powerful,  digni- 
fied, and  important  nation  centuries  ago — long  before 
anyone,  except  Dissenters  and  such  like,  dreamt  of  going 
to  Canada  or  America.  She  sat  in  the  cab  obviously 
"at  gaze,"  like  the  most  naive  tripper,  turning  round  to 
get  the  latest  look.  .  .  . 

The  turmoil  of  the  cross-roads  known  to  'bus  conduc- 
tors briefly  as  "Benk" — where  Royal  Exchange,  Mansion 
House,  and  Bank  of  England  glare  gravely  across  at  one 
another,  like  three  fat  old  merchants  in  a  club — filled 
Margot  with  a  fresh  excitement.  When  she  reached  her 
destination,  the  famous  thoroughfare,  as  narrow  as  a 
street  of  palaces  in  Genoa — with  its  dark  and  frowning 
stone  buildings  surmounted  by  heavy  pediments  and 
lighted  by  rows  of  unutterably  serious  windows — she  was 
trembling  all  over.  A  commissioner  in  a  top-hat  with 
gold  braid  round  it  opened  the  heavy  swing  door  of  the 


136  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

bank  for  her.  When  she  got  into  the  hall,  which  was 
full  of  a  subdued  murmur  like  that  of  a  congregation 
saying  the  Lord's  Prayer  in  some  vast  church,  Margot's 
knees  knocked  together  with  a  delicious  agitation.  She 
advanced  to  one  of  the  desks  and  handed  over  her  cheque. 
The  clerk  took  it,  looked  at  it,  and  handed  it  back. 

"This  cheque  is  crossed,  Madam,  and  can  only  be  paid 
through  another  bank."  He  turned  immediately  to  at- 
tend to  someone  else,  without  apparently  noticing  the 
blush  which  made  of  Margot  one  of  the  most  delightful 
apparitions  that  had  probably  ever  shed  its  radiance  on 
the  gloomy  establishment  since  the  date  of  its  opening. 
The  doorkeeper,  an  old  soldier,  was  more  susceptible 
than  the  clerk,  and  gave  Margot  a  courteously  admir- 
ing smile  as  he  opened  the  door  for  her  to  go  out. 

Margot  had  a  banking  account  of  her  own  at  a  bank 
near  Richbourne  Terrace.  Mrs.  Falkenheim  had  taken 
her  in  there  one  day,  soon  after  her  arrival  in  London, 
and  introduced  her  to  the  manager,  who  ever  since  had, 
as  Margot  put  it,  "nearly  bust  himself"  with  politeness. 
After  she  had  lunched,  which  she  did  at  an  A.B.C.  amid 
the  furtive  glances  of  rows  of  black-coated  clerks  and 
the  haughty  stare  of  pretty  typists,  she  went  to  Bays- 
water  on  an  omnibus  and  paid  in  her  cheque.  There 
was  something  soothing  about  the  almost  affectionate 
greeting  of  her  favourite  clerk  which  restored  her  peace 
of  mind  and  gave  her  confidence. 

On  the  whole,  when  she  got  back  to  the  St.  Pancras 
Hotel,  she  felt  far  more  heartened  to  face  its  frigid  sol- 
emnities than  she  had  been  when  she  started  out.  She 
had  spent  one  of  the  most  exciting  days  she  could  re- 
member. It  was  altogether  different  going  about  by  one- 
self from  going  about  with  Mrs.  Falkenheim  or  even 
with  Rachel  or  some  man  or  other.  Solitude  had  its 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  137 

charms,  undoubtedly — if  only  it  were  a  solitude  that 
one  could  terminate  at  will. 

The  day's  wandering  had  revived  her  latent  love  of 
adventure  for  its  own  sake.  It  amazed  her  how  well 
she  had  succeeded  in  not  getting  into  states  of  mind  about 
her  affairs.  She  had  hardly  given  the  Falkenheims  a 
thought  all  day,  nor  Vernon,  nor  Sir  Carl  Frensen  either. 
She  had  felt,  curiously  enough,  a  recurring  temptation 
to  ring  up  Levett,  but  she  had  enough  native  prudence 
to  resist  it.  It  was  difficult;  she  felt  sure  he  would  be 
sympathetic.  He  would  have  restored  her  nerve;  he 
was  so  strong  and  clever  and  cynical.  Perhaps,  if  Adam 
Henderson  let  her  down,  she  would  reconsider  things. 
But  no;  if  that  misfortune  happened,  Rachel  would  be 
the  friend  to  whom  she  would  turn.  Rachel  would,  she 
felt  sure,  do  anything  for  her ;  she  was  so  kind  and  gen- 
erous. 

If  the  day  had  been  attractive,  the  long  hours  between 
dinner  and  bedtime,  and  the  still  longer  hours  of  the 
night,  spent  in  a  room  that  was  now  become  almost 
unendurable  to  her,  made  up  for  it  by  their  concentrated 
gloom.  As  she  sat  all  alone  in  her  wicker  armchair  in 
the  solemn  palm  court  of  the  hotel,  her  mind  became 
a  prey  to  a  thousand  anxieties.  Supposing  Adam  did 
not  reply;  supposing  Israel  Falkenheim  (whom  she  im- 
agined to  be  capable  of  anything)  intercepted  his  letter; 
supposing  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  write  some  wicked 
libel  about  her  to  the  Stokes  ...  ?  It  was  not  us- 
ually her  way  to  invent  misfortunes  before  they  occurred, 
but  her  sudden  change  of  luck,  combined  with  the  cheer- 
lessness  and  loneliness  of  the  great  hotel,  had  strained 
her  nerves  almost  to  breaking-point.  Another  horror 
that  came  over  her — a  fear  partly  induced  by  the  glances 
cast  in  her  direction  by  almost  all  the  men  in  the  hotel 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

who  noticed  that  she  was  alone — was  that  if  things  went 
very  badly  she  might  not  be  able  to  "keep  respectable." 
That  seemed  to  her  to  be  an  appalling  fate,  not  to  keep 
respectable.  .  .  . 

She  went  early  to  bed  and  lay  on  her  back  with  the 
iwindow  wide  open,  looking  at  the  deep  dark  blue  of  the 
sky  suffused  with  a  golden  glow  from  the  arc  lamps  and 
the  illuminated  facias  of  the  central  streets.  The  roar 
of  the  traffic,  softened  by  distance,  sounded  in  her  ears 
like  the  breakers  of  perilous  but  enchanting  seas.  And 
the  more  acutely  she  realised  their  perils,  the  greater  be- 
came their  enchantment.  London,  London!  She  would 
conquer  her  place  in  it  somehow!  She  was  conscious 
of  being  almost  empty  inside  except  for  this  all-consum- 
ing determination.  She  knew  herself  to  be  just  a  little 
girl  with  a  pretty  body,  no  money,  and  a  precise  ambi- 
tion. Of  love,  even  of  affection,  she  knew  hardly  any- 
thing, and  she  had  so  little  experience  of  disinterested 
kindness,  was  so  unaccustomed  to  small  exhibitions  of 
good  nature,  tact,  and  feeling  for  others,  that  she  either 
misinterpreted  them  or  failed  to  notice  them  when  they 
came  her  way.  Her  eyes  were  still  hard  and  had  a  kind 
of  fierce  eagerness  and  alertness,  like  a  hawk's.  They 
suggested  that  she  was  constantly  on  the  look-out  for 
what  could  be  turned  to  her  advantage;  and,  had  she 
not  been  so  young  and  so  beautiful,  their  expression 
would  have  lent  something  sinister  to  her  whole  per- 
sonality. As  she  lay  in  bed,  sleepless,  all  alone  in  the 
great  hotel,  and  frightened,  she  began  vaguely  to  realise 
her  selfishness.  For  an  hour  or  two  her  nerves  seemed* 
to  snap,  and  she  wept  because  she  was  so  lonely  and 
because  she  was  a  virgin  and  had  no  mother  to  help 
her.  Her  tears  relieved  the  tension  of  her  nerves,  and 
enabled  her  at  last  to  fall  asleep. 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  139 

In  the  morning,  as  soon  as  she  came  downstairs,  she 
went  resolutely  to  the  telephone  and  rang  up  the  Falken- 
heims'  house.  She  knew  the  jx>st  would  have  come  and 
that  neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Falkenheim  would  yet  be  up. 
The  footman  answered  her  on  the  telephone.  Yes,  there 
was  a  letter  for  her,  he  replied.  She  noticed  that  he 
spoke  with  intentional  uncivility;  evidently  the  servants 
had  guessed  what  had  happened.  She  curtly  told  the 
man  that  she  would  send  a  messenger  for  the  letter,  and 
put  down  the  receiver.  When  the  boy  brought  the  let- 
ter back  she  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  hall  of  the  hotel 
and  almost  snatched  the  envelop  out  of  his  hand.  Her 
face  was  quite  white  at  first,  but  as  she  hastily  glanced 
at  the  letter  a  blush  of  relief  spread  over  her  cheeks. 

"My  dear  Margot,"  it  ran,  in  Adam's  niggling  hand- 
writing, "I  was  so  glad  to  hear  from  you,  as  we  were 
afraid  you  had  forgotten  all  about  us.  By  all  means 
come  down  for  the  week-end,  but  we  hope,  as  it  is  so 
near  the  end  of  the  season,  you  will  change  your  mind 
and  pay  us  a  good  long  visit.  There  is  an  excellent  train 
leaving  Waterloo  at  12.37,  and  if  you  decide  to  catch 
this  and  will  send  a  telegram  we  will  send  to  meet  you 
at  Wareham.  .  .  ."  Margot  did  not  bother  to  read 
any  further.  She  turned  and  hurried  to  her  room  to 
pack  her  things. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WITH  the  prospect  of  Adam  really  coming  up  to  the 
scratch,  of  her  plans  succeeding,  all  Margot's  nervous- 
ness vanished  and  she  became  her  old  buoyant  self.  She 
arrived  early  at  Waterloo,  lunched  on  board  the  train, 
and  settled  herself  in  the  corner  of  her  carriage  to  stare 
at  the  strange,  park-like  English  landscape  and  to  specu- 
late about  Kingsworth  House  and  whether  Mrs.  Adam 
would  prove  a  cat  or  a  fool.  At  all  costs  she  would 
have  to  propitiate  Mrs.  Henderson,  whatever  she  was 
like.  The  idea  of  the  rather  down-at-heel  and  unsuccess- 
ful young  clergyman  whom  she  remembered  being  act- 
ually married  and  the  headmaster  of  a  boy's  preparatory 
school  amazed  her,  till  she  reflected  that  the  changes 
which  had  come  over  her  own  conditions  were  no  less 
astounding.  And,  after  all,  Adam  had  always  been  ex- 
tremely canny,  for  a  clergyman.  He  never,  for  all  his 
sentimentality,  could  forget  the  main  chance.  Perhaps 
he  had  struck  it  "rich !" 

As  the  train  raced  on,  Margot  made  constant  efforts 
to  imagine  what  kind  of  household  it  was  to  which  she 
was  going.  Sometimes  she  gloomily  pictured  a  kind  of 
Dotheboys  Hall  with  ragged  urchins  sprawling  about  all 
the  living-rooms,  and  Mrs.  Henderson — blowsy  and 
good-natured — mending  torn  "pants"  and  superintending 
the  cooking;  Adam  even  more  unshaved  and  unkempt 
than  he  was  in  his  Montreal  days.  Then  it  occurred  to 
her  that  Adam  could  never  have  started  a  school  unless 
his  wife  had  money,  and  that  the  school  might  conceiva- 
bly be  a  great  success.  She  revised  her  ideas  and  now 

140 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  141 

figured  to  herself  a  red  brick  villa,  with  airy  rooms  and 
a  great  deal  of  white  paint,  filled  with  well-washed  little 
boys  in  neat  uniforms.  The  train  passed  Winchester, 
and  she  asked  a  fellow  traveler  to  point  out  the  school 
to  her,  in  order  that  she  might  have  some  idea  of  what 
a  boys'  school  looked  like.  He  showed  her  some  rather 
new  red-brick  buildings,  saying  that  they  were  "part  of 
it,"  and  confirmed  her  in  her  conviction  that  Kingsworth 
House  would  be  a  large,  hygienic  villa. 

The  train  raced  through  the  New  Forest,  with  its 
straight  green  lanes  and  clumps  of  newly  planted  trees 
alternating  with  lovely  pine  woods,  stopped  at  Bourne- 
mouth, then,  after  circling  Poole  Harbour,  drew  up  in 
due  time  at  Wareham. 

With  beating  heart  Margot  got  on  to  the  platform 
with  her  hand  luggage — eager,  with  all  the  eagerness 
of  twenty-three,  to  meet  fresh  people,  to  progress,  to 
push  on,  to  mark  a  new  stage  in  her  career.  The  after- 
noon sunlight  fell  on  her  bright  gold  hair  and  made 
the  clearness  of  her  skin  almost  transparent.  As  she 
stood  there  with  parted  lips  she  looked  like  some  soul- 
less nymph.  She  had  the  lithe  grace  of  an  animal  and 
behind  the  limpid  china-blue  of  her  eyes  there  was  as 
yet  no  human  depth  or  softness.  She  looked  about  the 
station  for  a  moment,  to  see  if  Adam  had  come  to  meet 
her.  They  noticed  one  another  simultaneously,  and  hur- 
ried forward  smiling. 

"Well  I'm  durned,  Adam,"  was  Margot's  first  exclama- 
tion after  they  had  shaken  hands  with  one  another.  "I 
shouldn't  never  have  known  you!"  He  had  certainly 
changed  out  of  all  recognition  since  his  Montreal  days. 
His  neck  was  inches  fatter;  his  cheeks  were  like  in- 
flated air-pillows;  his  usually  blue  chin  was  shaved  to 
perfection ;  a  vague  perfume  floated  from  his  hair.  When 


142  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

he  noticed  Margot's  glance  straying  from  his  highly 
polished  top  hat,  to  his  superlatively  brushed  clerical 
frock  coat  and  gleaming  shirt-cuffs,  he  explained  hur- 
riedly that  he  had  just  come  from  a  Ruridecanal  con- 
ference. 

"Well,  I  never  did,"  said  Margot,  "we  are  a  couple, 
aren't  we!  What  d'you  think  of  me?  But  you  must 
tell  me  after  we've  got  the  grips  on  the  rig." 

It  amused  Margot  to  drop  into  the  familiar  dialect, 
in  memory  of  old  days,  and  she  could  see  that  it  evoked 
a  sentimental  response  in  her  companion.  When  the 
porter  said  very  respectfully,  "Will  you  'ave  them  on 
the  car,  sir?"  she  pricked  up  her  eyes.  "Bet  it's  a  Ford, 
though,"  she  said  to  herself,  distrusting  her  luck.  In 
a  few  moments,  however,  she  was  being  helped  by  a 
chauffeur,  in  a  dark  green  livery,  into  a  smooth-running 
Lanchester  of  which  her  already  experienced  eye  could 
not  but  approve.  She  was  longing  to  dig  Adam  in  the 
ribs  and  ask  him  how  he  managed  it,  but  what  with 
the  top  hat  and  the  cuffs  and  the  Ruridecanal  confer- 
ence, she  was  afraid  he  might  be  going  to  take  himself 
seriously. 

The  town  of  Wareham,  enclosed  within  its  steep  grass 
ramparts,  with  its  elegant  Queen  Anne  residences  built 
on  the  street,  its  grey  churches  and  ancient  bridge  over 
the  Frome,  enchanted  her.  Then  the  car  opened  out 
along  the  straight,  sandy  road  across  the  moorland, 
towards  the  low  Purbeck  Hills — in  the  midst  of  which 
Corfe  Castle  stood  proudly  on  its  knoll,  with  its  crumb- 
ling old  village  clustering  round  its  skirts.  The  castle 
seemed  to  raise  its  battered  keep  of  Purbeck  stone  as 
defiantly  now  as  in  the  days  when  gallant  Dame  Bankes 
defended  it  for  King  Charles.  As  she  looked  at  it,  mag- 
nificent still,  even  in  its  decay,  Margot  realised  almost 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  143 

for  the  first  time  what  "England"  really  meant,  why 
it  was  that  even  the  wasters  out  in  Montreal  had  talked 
queerly  about  "going  home."  It  was  all  so  wonderfully 
long-established.  These  mournful  and  deserted  moors 
covered  with  heather  and  gorse  and  broom  had  a  charm 
for  her  that  seemed  to  awake  an  instinctive  craving  in 
her  own  soul,  unsuspected  until  that  moment. 

"We've  got  rather  a  nice  old  place  at  Kingsworth," 
Adam  remarked.  "I  think  you'll  like  it.  It  was  in  my 
wife's  family,  you  know;  she  was  born  there,  and  so 
was  her  father." 

Margot  felt  inclined  to  ask  Adam  all  about  his  wife 
and  where  he  met  her ;  but,  in  view  of  these  increasingly 
overpowering  revelations  of  their  joint  magnificence,  she 
did  not  dare  to  do  so.  Besides,  Adam  himself  seemed 
a  little  overpowered,  a  little  consciously  on  his  best  be- 
haviour. He  satisfied  her  curiosity  later  on,  however,  by 
remarking  that  he  had  first  met  his  wife  on  board  the 
boat  on  his  return  to  England.  She  had  visited  America 
with  her  father,  Colonel  Blundell,  in  order  to  examine 
a  new  system  of  reclaiming  youthful  criminals,  and  it 
was  their  common  enthusiasm  for  good  works  which  had 
drawn  them  together.  Margot  remembered  that  Adam 
had  always  been  great  on  clubs  for  street  Arabs. 

"They  are  useful  things,  those  liners,"  she  reflected. 
"The  voyage  gave  him  his  chance  to  tell  the  tale,  same 
as  it  did  me  with  the  Falkenheims !" 

Kingsworth  turned  out  to  be  a  small  village,  built  of 
Purbeck  stone  quarried  from  the  neighbouring  cliffs. 
It  lay  about  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  sea,  buried  in 
a  dell  amid  the  green  downs,  sheltered  from  the  winds. 
It  was  about  four  miles  to  the  west  of  Swanage,  and  a 
little  further  from  Corfe  Castle. 

The  car  slowed  down  as  it  traversed  the  narrow  vi!- 


144  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

lage  street,  and  Margot  watched  the  smiling  faces  of  the 
cottagers  on  either  side.  Some  of  the  women  courtesied 
and  the  older  men  all  touched  their  hats.  She  had  never 
seen  anything  like  that  in  Canada,  or  even  in  London 
(where  the  politeness  of  the  lower  orders  was  obviously 
paid  for),  and  the  spectacle  gave  her  an  exhilarating 
sense  of  power,  of  belonging  to  the  "upper  classes." 
In  a  few  moments  the  car  swung  round  to  the  left  and 
entered  a  drive  between  two  stone  pillars,  while  a  smil- 
ing woman  held  open  the  white  gate.  A  minute  more, 
and  it  had  surged  up  to  an  imposing  portico,  and  the 
chauffeur  was  helping  her  to  descend. 

Margot  got  a  hurried  impression  of  a  long  house  built 
of  grey  stone,  with  rows  of  tall  windows,  the  frames  of 
which  were  painted  white.  Interspersed  along  its  facade, 
between  the  windows,  were  flattened  Doric  pillars  rising 
up  to  a  highly  ornamental  classic  pediment,  and  the  whole 
house  had  a  kind  of  solid  and  tranquil  elegance.  At 
the  back  a  lovely  wood  sloped  up  the  side  of  the  hill 
and  made  a  green  setting  for  the  mansion.  In  front 
was  a  wide  lawn  of  rich  turf  ending  in  a  cricket  field, 
where  a  crowd  of  little  boys  were  running  about  like 
animals  in  a  cage.  As  Margot  got  out  of  the  car  she 
heard  their  shrill  cries  of  "Thank  you,  sirrrr !"  or  "Heads 
there!"  They  were  all  dressed  alike  in  white  flannel 
shirts  and  grey  flannel  knickerbockers  kept  up  by  crim- 
son scarves.  To  the  left  of  the  house  was  another  lawn 
partly  shut  in  by  a  box  hedge,  where  two  girls  and  two 
men  were  playing  tennis.  The  shouting  of  the  boys  and 
the  laughter  of  the  young  women  in  the  tennis  court 
seemed  to  blend  with  the  brilliance  of  the  roses  and  the 
geraniums  in  the  flower-beds,  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky, 
and  the  vivid  green  of  the  smooth-cropped  lawns,  to 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  145 

make  for  Margot  a  complete  picture  of  English  rural 
delight. 

The  front  door  of  the  house,  within  the  pillared  por- 
tico, stood  open,  and  just  inside  it  was  a  white-haired 
butler,  whose  clear-cut,  ascetic  features  made  him  look 
much  more  like  a  priest  than  his  master.  Margot  could 
have  hugged  the  man ;  she  felt  so  happy.  His  name  was 
Stanton. 

Whilst  Margot  was  being  disembarrassed  of  her 
wraps,  her  hostess  emerged  through  one  of  the  square 
white  doors  which  opened  out  of  the  hall.  She  had 
evidently  just  come  in  from  the  conservatory,  for  she 
carried  three  white  gardenias  and  a  pair  of  garden  scis- 
sors in  her  hand.  She  greeted  Margot  with  a  mixture 
of  friendliness  and  lack  of  ceremony  that  was  almost 
off-hand — as  though  they  had  known  one  another  for 
years.  Margot  was  not  accustomed  to  be  taken  as  a 
matter  of  course  like  this,  and  reserved  judgment. 

They  had  tea  in  the  drawing-room,  a  large  room  open- 
ing on  to  the  garden,  and  she  contrived  to  examine  her 
hostess  while  pouring  out  small  talk  about  her  journey 
and  her  views  of  England,  and  of  London. 

Mrs.  Henderson  was  a  type  altogether  new  to  Mar- 
got.  The  only  people  who  in  the  least  seemed  to  resem- 
ble her  were  the  Cornewalls,  and  even  there  the  resem- 
blance was  slight.  She  wore  a  tweed  skirt,  very  neat 
and  highly-polished  brown  shoes,  and  a  high-necked  silk 
blouse.  She  had  dark  grey  eyes,  set  under  a  broad  white 
forehead,  black  hair,  a  straight  nose,  and  noticeably  firm 
mouth.  Her  whole  expression  was  one  of  perfect  self- 
control,  of  a  high-mindedness  which,  but  for  a  lurking 
sense  of  humour,  might  have  been  repellent.  And,  like 
a  hospital  nurse,  there  was  about  her  something  aggres- 
sively clean,  as  though  she  were  washed  all  over  with 


146  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

carbolic  soap.  Her  brain,  no  doubt,  was  plentifully  sprin- 
kled with  a  kind  of  intellectual  sanitas.  Even  her  con- 
versation was  gently  hygienic.  She  had  an  antiseptic 
glance;  and  Margot  guessed  that  on  her  walks  through 
her  house  she  would  contrive  to  leave  behind  her  a  trail 
of  open  windows.  .  .  . 

"I  went  down  to  the  creche  this  morning,  Adam," 
Mrs.  Henderson  remarked  to  her  husband,  after  the  us- 
ual polite  preliminaries  were  over  and  such  questions  as 
"What  sort  of  a  show  did  Harrow  make  this  year  ?"  had 
been  put  and  answered.  "The  nurse  has  got  to  work 
splendidly,"  she  went  on.  "There  were  six  infants  in- 
stalled already,  including  Mrs.  Joe  Burt's  new  baby  girl. 
Poor  little  mite !  she  will  need  no  end  of  care,  but  Nurse 
quite  thinks  we  shall  pull  her  through.  We  have  just 
started  a  little  village  hospital,  Miss  Carter,"  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson continued.  "It  is  principally  intended  for  ba- 
bies, but  in  practice  we  try  to  do  what  we  can  in  all 
cases  of  sickness  in  the  village,  until  the  doctor  can 
get  round.  I  must  take  you  to  see  the  place  to-morrow ; 
we  are  tremendously  proud  of  it,  I  can  tell  you !  Kings- 
worth  is  almost  the  only  village  in  Dorset  where  any- 
thing of  the  kind  has  been  attempted.  Of  course,  all 
our  reactionary  neighbours  are  just  longing  for  the  ex- 
periment to  fail.  .  .  ." 

Margot  encouraged  her  hostess  to  ride  her  hobby- 
horse, and,  whilst  continuing  to  use  her  eyes  as  hard 
as  she  could,  endeavoured  to  act  the  part  of  the  at- 
tentive and  interested  listener.  She  had  learnt  by  this 
time  to  take  a  reasonable  share  in  a  conversation  with- 
out paying  too  much  attention  to  it,  and  whilst  Mrs. 
Henderson  recounted  the  village  ailments  to  her  hus- 
band— who,  as  Margot  had  to  remind  herself,  was  vicar 
of  the  parish — she  had  opportunities  for  studying  the  two 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  14? 

people  on  whose  goodwill  her  whole  future  seemed  like- 
ly to  depend.  If  the  charm  of  their  setting  were  any- 
thing to  go  by,  she  had  evidently  fallen,  cat-like,  on  all 
fours.  The  lofty  drawing-room  with  its  elaborately  or- 
namented ceiling,  panelling  enamelled  white,  polished 
parquet  floor,  and  dark  old  paintings  in  heavy,  gilded 
frames,  amazed  her  by  its  quiet  richness.  It  seemed 
such  a  much  more  "human"  room  than  any  of  those  in 
the  Falkenheims'  house,  splendid  as  they  were.  Some- 
how the  atmosphere  was  different. 

Margot  could  see  that  the  things  in  the  room,  though 
mostly  old,  were  good  and  bad,  beautiful  and  ugly.  Yet 
they  seemed  all  to  fit  in,  as  though  each  thing  were 
prized  rather  for  its  associations  than  for  its  value  in 
the  sale-room.  And  to  think  that  that  down-at-heel  young 
lead-me-to-glory  Adam  Henderson  had  secured  all  this 
for  himself.  How  on  earth  had  he  managed  it?  She 
eyed  him  like  a  trade  rival. 

While  they  were  drinking  their  tea  and  discussing  the 
insanitary  habits  of  the  villagers,  the  tennis  players  fin- 
ished their  set,  and  came  in  through  the  open  window, 
flushed  and  full  of  chatter.  Margot  looked  at  them  with 
interest.  The  girls  were  very  slangy.  One  of  them  was 
ugly  and  clearly  over  thirty,  and  much  slangier  than 
the  young  and  pretty  one.  She  had  "unmarried"  writ- 
ten all  over  her  in  such  a  queer,  pathetic  way  that  Mar- 
got  wished  she  could  get  to  know  her  in  order  that 
she  might  suggest  emigration  to  Canada.  The  men 
turned  out  to  be  resident  masters,  and  struck  Margot  as 
being  remarkably  like  unprosperous  editions  of  Adam. 
They  talked  about  their  games,  drank  their  tea  eagerly, 
showed  a  pretty  deference  to  Mrs.  Henderson,  and 
seemed  to  have  nice,  gentleman-like  manners.  They 
vore  white  flannel  shirts  open  at  the  neck,  and  were 


i48  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

very  boisterous  and  easy,  and  had  neat  toothbrush  mous- 
taches, which  they  pulled  when  they  made  remarks  like, 
"By  Jove !  Miss  Saunders,  that  was  a  topping  backhander 
of  yours  in  the  last  game.  Never  thought  you'd  get 
it!"  And  that  was  what  most  of  their  remarks  -were 
like. 

Margot  was  pleased  when  Adam  announced  his  in- 
tention of  showing  her  the  house  and  garden  and  took 
her  off  with  him,  leaving  the  tennis  players  to  finish 
their  tea. 

The  more  she  saw  of  the  stately  Georgian  mansion, 
with  its  formal,  rather  solemn,  elegance,  the  more  it 
fascinated  her.  Its  symmetrical  garden  front,  with  its 
circular  portico,  rows  of  flattened  pillars,  and  heavy 
classic  pediment,  Margot  had  seen  when  she  arrived. 
Adam  now  showed  her  the  other  side  of  the  house,  from 
which  an  older  wing,  lately  renovated  and  now  used 
as  the  boys'  quarters,  projected  at  right  angles.  Here 
there  were  orangeries  and  walled  gardens,  stables  as  big 
as  a  church  and  not  unlike  one  in  architecture,  Fives 
courts  under  the  hillside,  conservatories,  an  electric-light 
generator,  a  laundry.  Everything  was  in  apple-pie  or- 
der, freshly  painted,  and  the  whole  establishment  seemed 
to  exhale  an  air  of  cheerfulness  and  success,  of  quiet 
dignity,  cleanliness,  and  health.  Margot  hoped  she 
would  be  able  to  lure  Vernon  into  Dorsetshire  during 
her  visit.  Here  was  her  longed-for  English  background. 
To  think  that  Adam  Henderson  of  all  people,  whom  she 
had  always  secretly  despised  and  never  more  so  than 
while  she  was  living  at  Richbourne  Terrace,  should  turn 
out  to  hold  the  keys  of  the  situation!  She  recalled  now 
that  he  had  only  cooled  off  her,  in  the  Montreal  days, 
after  he  had  discovered  that  her  father  was  a  grocer.  He 
had  been  the  wary  Scot  even  then ;  no  doubt  it  was  this 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  149 

national  characteristic  which  had  brought  him  success. 
Somehow  her  own  qualities,  as  exemplified  in  someone 
else,  struck  her  as  being  curiously  unlovable.  She  began 
to  have  doubts  about  the  correctness  of  her  point  of  view. 
After  walking  through  the  gardens  and  talking  to  the  old 
gardeners  and  taking  a  look  at  the  boys  playing  cricket, 
who  paused  in  their  game  to  gaze  in  silent  adoration 
at  the  pretty  lady  walking  with  "the  head,"  they  went 
back  to  the  house,  and  Adam  showed  her  the  boys'  airy 
dormitories,  the  schoolrooms,  and  the  boys'  dining-hall. 
As  they  went  through  a  green  baize  door  into  the  ser- 
vants' quarters,  Margot,  who  went  first,  heard  a  slight 
scuffle,  and  suddenly  found  herself  confronted  by  a  youth 
of  about  seventeen.  He  was  handsome  in  an  unwhole- 
some way,  with  a  pale  face,  dark,  unkempt  hair,  and  sul- 
len eyes  that  had  a  smouldering  fire  in  them.  The  pretty 
housemaid  whom  he  had  been  kissing  in  a  big  glass- 
cupboard  escaped  with  scarlet  face  and  a  comical  air  of 
outraged  dignity.  The  boy  stood,  flushed  and  lowering, 
looking  at  Margot.  Adam,  who,  either  by  accident  or 
design,  had  just  missed  seeing  Annie's  embarrassed 
escape,  introduced  the  youth,  whose  name  was  Lord 
Danbury.  "What  are  you  doing  here,  Danbury?"  he 
asked,  in  a  tone  of  voice  which  had  a  distinct  note  of 
the  schoolmaster  in  it.  "Why  don't  you  cut  along  and 
have  a  game  of  tennis  before  dinner?" 

"Oh,  all  right,  Mr.  Henderson,"  said  Danbury,  sheep- 
ishly, sloping  off  as  quickly  as  he  could.  "But  I'm  abso- 
lutely fed  up  with  tennis !" 

"Is  that  one  of  your  side  lines?"  Margot  asked,  with 
amusement. 

"Yes,"  said  Adam.  "The  young  blackguard !  Heaven 
only  knows  how  I  shall  get  him  into  Oxford  or  Cam- 
bridge. His  parents  are  friends  of  Mary's  people,  and 


150  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

she  offered  to  take  him.     She  has  done  wonders  with 
him  already.  ..." 

By  the  time  Margot  rejoined  Mrs.  Henderson  she  had 
elucidated  one  fact  about  Adam,  and  that  was  that,  even 
if  he  had  married  her  primarily  for  her  money,  his  re- 
spect and  admiration  for  his  wife  were  genuine.  And 
Mary  Henderson's  high-mindedness  was  of  an  awe-in- 
spiring, incandescent  kind.  Somehow  Margot  never  felt 
quite  easy  under  her  penetrating  glance. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MARGOT'S  first  impressions  of  Kings  worth  House  were 
all  enchanting,  from  the  view  from  her  bedroom  window 
to  the  quince  marmalade  for  breakfast. 

"I  sleep  like  a  pig  and  feed  like  an  ox,"  she  wrote  in 
her  first  letter  to  Rachel.  "My  room  is  just  lovely,  a 
white-flowered  bedspread  on  the  bed,  white  paint  every- 
where, and  wide  open  windows  letting  in  the  whir  of  the 
lawn-mower  and  the  yells  of  the  little  boys  playing  cricket. 
I  can  hear  them  shouting  and  running  about  in  their  dor- 
mitories as  soon  as  I  wake,  and  I  was  greatly  shocked  on 
the  morning  after  my  arrival  to  find,  when  I  put  my 
head  out  of  my  window,  that  I  could  see  right  into  their 
bathroom !  They  were  all  having  shower-baths  and  flip- 
ping each  other's  backs  with  wet  towels — the  wickedest 
little  devils  you  ever  saw !  But,  my  dear,  the  view  from 
my  -room  and  the  sea  air  that  blows  in  over  the  hill ! 
You  simply  can't  imagine  how  lovely  it  all  is!"  .  .  . 
"Mrs.  Henderson  does  good  works,  but  does  not  seem  to 
be  in  the  least  pompous  about  them.  She  bathes  with 
a  boy  called  Lord  Danbury,  and  me,  and  the  doctor's 
daughter,  every  morning,  just  before  luncheon.  There  is 
a  kind  of  natural  swimming  bath  at  Durdle  Ledge,  which 
the  sea  fills  at  each  tide,  and  it  is  only  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  the  house.  We  walk  there  in  our  bathing  gowns 
with  coats  on  over  them  and  towels  slung  over  our 
shoulders.  The  boys  bathe  there  three  days  a  week. 
No  breakfast  in  bed  here,  dearest !  The  whole  household 
assembles  at  half-past  eight.  You  can't  imagine  how 

151 


152  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

lovely  the  constant  fresh  air  is;  my  complexion  looks 
quite  different  already!" 

Margot's  complexion,  from  the  second  day  of  her 
arrival,  certainly  gained  a  sudden  new  radiance.  But 
the  radiance  started  so  palpably  from  the  moment  when 
she  opened  a  certain  envelope  which  waited  by  her  plate 
on  the  breakfast  table,  that  it  is  doubtful  whether  the 
ozone  was  entirely  responsible  for  it. 

"My  dearest  girl,"  ran  the  tonic  letter,  "I  was  so 
disappointed  to  get  your  note  telling  me  you  had  slipped 
off  down  to  the  country  without  saying  good-bye.  I  hope 
you  won't  prolong  your  visit,  as  you  suggest  is  possible. 
The  Heathcotes  have  a  dance  on  the  twentieth,  and  the 
Brackenbury's  the  evening  after,  both  at  the  Ritz;  and 
then,  of  course,  there  is  Mrs.  Falkenheim's  dance  on  the 
twenty-third.  I  suppose  you  intend  at  least  to  be  back  for 
that,  since  surely  she  is  giving  it  in  your  honour?  Do 
give  me  the  supper  dances,  Margot,  will  you?  But  I 
can't  wait  all  that  long  time  to  know  my  fate!  You 
are  the  only  girl  I  have  ever  wanted  to  marry,  and  if 
you  won't  have  me,  life  simply  won't  be  worth  living.  I 
know  I  am  not  worthy  of  you,  my  dearest,  but  I  swear 
I  would  make  you  a  good  husband.  This  is  an  idiotic 
letter,  but  I  never  was  a  good  hand  at  letters.  You 
can't  think  how  flat  everything  is  now  you  are  away. 
Write  and  tell  me  when  and  where  we  can  meet.  I  must 
have  your  answer,  dearest,  from  your  own  lips. — Yours 
devotedly,  VERNON  STOKES." 

When  she  had  finished  reading  this  outburst,  which  she 
knew  that  nothing  but  the  strongest  emotion  could  pos- 
sibly have  wrung  out  of  Vernon's  studious  reserve, 
Margot's  face  blossomed  into  a  smile  of  such  perfect 
satisfaction  that  everyone  at  the  table  noticed  it,  and 
speculated  as  to  the  cause.  He  had  proposed  to  her  by 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  153 

letter;  he  had  committed  himself;  it  was  for  her  to  ac- 
cept him  or  to  reject  him.  Captain  Vernon  Stokes,  son 
and  heir  of  one  of  the  wealthiest  baronets  in  the  king- 
dom was  hers  for  the  asking !  Oh,  it  was  too  good  to  be 
true.  But  she  must  not  be  too  elated.  Some  horrible 
stroke  of  ill- fortune  might  so  easily  dash  the  cup  of 
success  from  her  lips;  Vernon  might  hear  of  something 
to  her  detriment  from  the  Falkenheims  and  be  put  off  by 
it.  And  yet,  what  after  all,  was  the  good  of  dwelling  on 
gloomy  possibilities?  The  glorious  facts  stared  her  in 
the  face  as  she  glanced  at  the  letter  in  her  hand.  Vernon, 
after  nearly  a  fortnight  in  which  to  "think  better  of  it," 
still  wanted  her  more  ardently  than  ever  to  be  his 
wife.  .  .  . 

With  her  great  anxiety  now  removed,  Margot  was  free 
to  enjoy  to  the  full  the  many  attractions  of  life  at  Kings- 
worth  House.  She  set  herself  at  once  to  make  friends 
with  Mrs.  Henderson,  who  on  further  acquaintance  was 
much  less  disquieting  than  she  had  at  first  supposed,  and 
revealed  herself  as  possessing  a  singularly  pure  and  noble 
nature,  quite  free  from  any  virtuous  harshness.  From 
the  average  man's  point  of  view,  her  absorption  in 
"movements"  for  the  good  of  others,  and  her  unremitting- 
altruism,  were  a  little  tiresome ;  but  Margot  did  not  find 
them  so.  Mrs.  Henderson's  unobtrusive  ascendancy  over 
the  whole  household,  from  the  smallest  of  the  schoolboys 
upwards,  her  energy,  and  the  atmosphere  of  sunny 
chastity  which  surrounded  her,  all  made  a  strong  im- 
pression on  Margot.  She  had  liked  very  few  of  her  own 
sex  before,  and  admired  none;  but  the  personality  of 
Mary  Henderson  touched  her  imagination  and  gradually 
came  to  alter  her  conception  of  women  by  increasing  her 
respect  for  them. 

Margot  soon  noticed  that  on  no  one  was  Mrs.  Hender- 


i54  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

son's  influence  exerted  more  beneficially  than  on  the  in- 
corrigible Danbury.  She  adopted  the  only  possible  way 
of  dissipating  the  leaden  clouds  of  "sin"  which  sur- 
rounded him — that  of  making  them  ridiculous.  From  the 
moment  of  their  first  embarrassing  encounter  Margot  had 
been  signalled  out  for  Danbury's  glances — full  of  the 
ghastly  gloom  of  youthful  desire — and  she  strongly 
suspected  him  of  having  glued  his  eye  to  the  keyhole  of 
the  bathroom  door  while  she  was  taking  her  first  tub. 
The  episode  of  the  assault  on  poor  Annie  in  the  glass 
cupboard,  which  Margot  alone  had  observed,  was  charac- 
teristic of  him.  Apparently  Annie  was  an  old  temptation 
for  some  days  later  Margot  heard  Mrs.  Henderson  chaf- 
fing the  youthful  homme  fatal  about  her. 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Henderson,  "your  affec- 
tionate nature  does  you  a  great  deal  of  credit.  But  if 
you  feel  so  pent  up  with  generous  emotions,  I  think  it 
is  very  ungallant  to  your  hostess  to  lavish  them  on 
Annie."  To  Margot's  astonishment  and  delight,  Mrs. 
Henderson  put  her  cool  arm  round  Danbury's  neck  and 
hugged  him  as  if  he  were  a  child  of  ten  and  she  were  his 
mother.  "Now  you  feel  better,  don't  you?"  she  said, 
with  a  laugh  that  had  almost  a  cry  in  it.  "And  I  am 
sure  you  will  now  be  able  to  turn  your  attention  to  Plato's 
'Apology*  and  get  through  your  'little-go.' " 

Danbury's  dark  eyes  burned  as  he  looked  at  her,  unable 
to  speak.  He  slunk  away  sheepishly  into  the  garden. 
Later  in  the  afternoon,  Margot  noticed  him  cutting  a 
bunch  of  roses ;  he  seemed  to  be  taking  great  care  to  cut 
them  all  of  the  same  shade  of  dark  velvety  red.  That 
evening,  just  before  dinner,  she  noticed  a  bowl  of  these 
dark  red  roses  standing  on  Mrs.  Henderson's  writing- 
table.  .  .  . 

The  same  night,  as  she  went  up  rather  early  to  her 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  155 

room,  she  heard  two  of  the  maids  whispering  together. 

'That  young  feller,  Vs  gone  and  got  Joe  Martin's 
daughter,  the  fair  one  down  at  the  post  office,  into  mos' 
awful  trouble.  Old  Jo  'e  do  say  as  'e'll  tell  Mrs.  'Ender- 
son,  'e  will."  Poor  Danbury — the  incurable  senti- 
mentalist !  Margot  couldn't  raise  any  sympathy  for  the 
horrid  little  fair-haired  minx  at  the  post  office,  who 
giggled  and  gave  wrong  change. 

The  school  broke  up  in  the  last  days  of  July,  and  there 
was  a  tremendous  bustle  in  getting  the  boys  off.  Some 
were  carried  away  by  effusive  parents,  who  arrived  in  cars 
and  had  to  be  invited  to  luncheon.  Others  were  driven, 
chattering  like  magpies,  in  big  brakes  to  Wareham  Sta- 
tion. Piles  of  deal  playboxes  went  off  the  day  before 
the  breaking-up,  and  on  the  last  two  days  the  boys  seemed 
suddenly  to  be  all  over  the  house. 

"Coo,  I  say,  Miss  Cartier,  you  are  pretty ;  all  the  other 
chaps  say  so !"  remarked  a  pink- faced  urchin  to  Margot 
on  the  last  morning.  He  had  impudent  brown  eyes  and 
a  most  engaging  grin,  and  Margot  felt  curiously  touched 
by  his  naive  tribute.  On  the  whole,  however,  she  was 
glad  when  the  boys  and  the  assistant-masters  went  away 
and  she  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  more  of  her  host 
and  hostess. 

She  had  seen  very  little  of  Adam  during  the  last  days 
of  term,  but  now  he  was  able  to  go  for  walks  with  her 
while  Mrs.  Henderson  was  paying  her  visits  in  the  village. 
They  would  go  for  miles  over  the  hills,  or  sit  in  the 
sunshine  on  Durdle  Ledge  watching  the  little  waves 
breaking  over  the  rampart  of  rock  in  a  joyous  cascade  of 
snow  and  feasting  their  eyes  on  the  dark  blue  expanse 
of  sea  and  sky.  Margot  enjoyed  these  walks.  There 
was  something  about  Adam  which  amused  her,  some 
quality  in  him  which  made  her  feel  profoundly  at  ease. 


156  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

She  thought  him  a  humbug  with  his  sanctimonious  airs, 
but  she  could  never  be  angry  with  him,  because  of  the 
twinkle  of  humour  which  always  lurked  in  the  depths  of 
his  little  clever  eyes.  And  she  admired  his  success, 
his  luck,  in  having  married  a  woman  so  infinitely  "above" 
him,  and  the  skill  he  showed  in  the  management  of  his 
school.  The  prospectus  of  the  school  amused  her  par- 
ticularly. Botany,  Music,  Woodcarving,  the  Violin,  Sing- 
ing, Dancing,  and  a  whole  string  of  other  subjects  were 
taught  by  "Visiting  Masters,"  while  young  gentlemen 
were  prepared  for  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  the  Army,  and 
the  Civil  Services.  Even  Hebrew  was  in  the  "curri- 
culum." "Who  teaches  the  Hebrew,  Adam?"  Margot 
asked  one  day,  "and  where  are  all  the  visiting  masters  ?" 

"Well,  their  visits  have  been  a  little  infrequent 
lately,"  Adam  replied  with  a  smile.  "And  as  to  the 
Hebrew  element,  we  try  to  eliminate  that  as  much  as 
possible !" 

"I  believe  you  are  as  big  a  humbug  as  I  am  myself, 
Adam !"  was  Margot's  comment.  The  prosperous  clergy- 
man beamed  amiably  and  failed  to  give  himself  away. 

"Do  you  know,  Adam,"  she  went  on,  suddenly  con- 
fidential, "I  have  a  young  man?  His  name  is  Vernon 
Stokes,  and  he  is  a  captain  in  the  Guards — very  good- 
looking,  tall,  neat  moustache,  good  eyes  and  teeth,  and 
terribly  rich  and  important.  I  believe  he  thinks  I  am  an 
heiress,  or  at  least  moderately  well  off.  He  doesn't  know 
anything,  thank  heaven!" 

Adam's  fat  face  lit  up  with  a  smile  of  congratulation. 
"When  is  the  marriage  to  be  solemnised?"  he  asked. 

"It  won't  be  at  all,"  said  Margot,  "not  unless  you  buck 
up  and  help  me  fix  it !" 

"Beyond  assisting  at  the  ceremony,  which  I  shall  be 
delighted  to  do,  my  dear,  I  don't  quite  see  how  ..." 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  157 

"Be  my  cousin  .  .  .  just  for  once,"  Margot  asked, 
caressingly.  They  were  sitting  on  the  grass  in  a  hollow 
under  the  shadow  of  Kingsworth  Hill,  looking  across 
at  the  tiny  Norman  chantry  on  St.  Aldhelm's  Head  and 
away  over  the  changing,  glittering  sea.  Adam  was 
dressed  in  an  old  grey  flannel  suit  and  tennis  shoes,  and 
Margot  was  wearing  an  equally  ancient  cotton  frock 
which  she  had  brought  with  her  from  Montreal.  Adam 
thought  he  remembered  the  frock,  and  as  he  smoked  his 
pipe  and  looked  at  her — the  "impressiveness"  of  his  pro- 
fession laid  on  one  side  for  a  moment — his  thoughts  took 
a  sentimental  turn.  "My  dear  girl,"  he  said,  "how  on 
earth  can  I  be  your  cousin?" 

"Oh,  it's  quite  easy,"  Margot  replied.  "All  Scotch 
people  are  related  in  some  way  or  other,  and  my  father 
and  yours  were  both  Scotch  .  .  .  therefore  they  must 
have  been  cousins !" 

"But  I  thought  you  were  a  French-Canadian!"  said 
Adam  chaffingly.  "And  what  could  be  a  more  dis- 
tinguished name  for  a  French-Canadian  than  Cartier? 
You  had  much  better  be  descended  from  the  great  Jac- 
ques Cartier,  the  founder  of  Montreal,  than  be  my 
cousin  ..." 

Margot  looked  thoughtful  for  a  moment.  "I  can  easily 
be  both,"  she  said.  "You  can  be  my  cousin  on  my 
mother's  side.  For  all  I  know,  her  name  was  Henderson. 
She  was  an  actress.  Didn't  you  ever  have  any  relatives 
who  were  actresses  ?" 

Adam  shook  his  head. 

"Anyway,  that  doesn't  matter,"  Margot  went  on. 
"Only  the  point  is,  the  Reverend  Adam  Henderson, 
cousin  of  the  bride,  ought  to  'assist'  at  Westminster 
Abbey  or  wherever  the  ceremony  takes  place.  I've  seen 
it  scores  of  times  in  the  Morning  Post,  haven't  you? 


158  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

Besides,  you  and  Mrs.  Henderson  would  let  Vernon  come 
here  and  call,  wouldn't  you?  If  only  the  silly  old  father 
could  come  too — old  Sir  William,  Bart. — it  would  be 
fixed  up  in  no  time.  .  .  .  Say  you  will  be  a  cousin  or  an 
uncle  to  me,  there's  a  dear!" 

Adam's  first  impulse  was  to  laugh;  then  he  hastily 
pulled  himself  together  and  looked  sacerdotal.  But 
finally  his  humour  got  the  better  of  him,  and  his  solemn- 
ity broke  into  a  smile.  You  must  make  the  statements, 
then,  Margot.  All  I  can  do  is  to  try  to  avoid  denying 
them.  But  what  about  Mary  ?" 

"She's  too  much  of  a  darling  to  suspect.  We  can  let 
the  information  drop  lightly,  refer  to  it  by  inference  as 
though  it  had  always  been  understood.  I'll  manage  it, 
trust  me !  All  you  will  have  to  do  is  to  admit  it  tacitly. 
I'll  make  it  a  very  distant  cousin,  if  you  like,  and  as  all 
Scotch  people  have  hundreds  of  relations,  no  one  will 
ever  know!" 

"Well,  so  long  as  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  you 
understand  ...  I  don't  approve  of  it,)  mind,  but  upon 
your  head  be  it.  If  you  think  it  will  do  you  any 
good.  .  .  ." 

"There,  I  knew  you  would  be  a  cousin  to  me,  Adam. 
I  was  sure  of  it !  If  you  weren't  so  frightfully  prosperous 
yourself,  I'd  offer  you  a  ten  per  cent  commission  on  my 
first  year's  salary.  ..." 

"Margot !"  said  Adam  severely,  an  unlooked-for  wave 
of  professional  zeal  and  prejudice  suddenly  engulfing  him, 
"I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  talk  like  that.  If  you  don't 
genuinely  care  for  the  man,  I  won't  be  a  party  to  any- 
thing so  villainous  as  your  marrying  him  just  for  what 
he  gives  you.  Believe  me,  a  marriage  where  the  woman 
gets  all  and  gives  nothing  is  really  less  satisfactory  for 
the  woman  than  the  man.  Such  marriages  never  turn 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  159 

out  well.  You  had  far  better  marry  a  man,  even  a  com- 
paratively poor  man,  Margot,  whom  you  really  like  .  .  . 
if  you  want  to  be  happy." 

Margot  was  completely  taken  aback  by  this  outburst. 
There  was  no  hint  of  a  smile  at  the  back  of  Adam's  eyes 
now.  He  was  showing  her  a  new  side  to  his  character. 
He  meant  what  he  said;  and  she  was  unable  to  under- 
stand how  a  humbug  could  also  be  perfectly  sincere  almost 
simultaneously.  She  remembered  now  that  she  had  been 
impressed  much  in  the  same  way  when  she  heard  him 
preach  in  the  village  church  on  Sunday  morning.  .  .  . 
She  had  expected  it  would  make  her  laugh;  but  it  had 
done  nothing  of  the  kind. 

"My  dear  Adam,  how  silly  you  are,"  she  remarked 
coldly,  as  though  his  rude  words  had  torn  the  veil  from 
her  most  sacred  emotions.  "Of  course,  I  am  utterly 
devoted  to  Vernon.  You  must  be  blind  if  you  can't  see 
that;  but  one  doesn't  want  to  shout  these  things  on  the 
housetops." 

"Well,  I'm  more  than  glad,"  'Adam  remarked,  as  they 
walked  back  to  the  house  over  the  springy,  slippery  turf 
of  the  downs.  "I  hope  you  will  be  extremely  happy.  He 
will  certainly  be  a  lucky  man." 

The  priest  had  now  given  way  once  again  to  the  senti- 
mentalist, and  the  swift  change — by  lending  her  com- 
panion a  certain  quality  of  elusiveness — disconcerted  her. 
She  hated  people  not  to  live  up  to  the  labels  she  applied 
to  them.  But  she  had  won  her  point. 


CHAPTER  XV 

VERY  soon  after  her  arrival  at  Kingsworth  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson had  invited  Margot  to  stay  for  a  "good  long  visit,'' 
and  a  little  later  both  she  and  Adam  begged  her  again  to 
stay  with  them  for  as  long  as  she  liked.  Nothing  could 
possibly  have  suited  Margot  better,  and  the  invitation, 
in  view  of  her  harassing  experiences  with  the  Falken- 
heims,  came  as  a  godsend,  and  evoked  from  her  one  of 
her  rare  expressions  of  gratitude.  Every  hour  she  spent 
at  Kingsworth  added  to  her  appreciation  of  the  Hender- 
sons and  of  their  house.  In  the  warm  days  of  July  and 
early  August  this  green  and  sheltered  corner  by  the  sea 
seemed  to  her  like  Paradise ;  and  after  the  hectic  excite- 
ments of  her  three  months  in  London  the  rest  and  quiet- 
ness were  just  what  she  needed.  She  liked  the  bathing 
and  the  long  walks,  the  big  breakfasts,  the  fresh  air,  the 
rapturous,  invigorating  idleness.  She  enjoyed  patronising 
the  doctor's  daughter  and  dazzling  her  with  her  elegant 
frocks ;  it  amused  her  to  make  Danbury  nearly  ill  through 
the  excess  of  his  admiration;  and  the  more  she  saw  of 
her  host  and  hostess,  the  more  she  liked  them.  Adam 
went  up  several  points  in  her  esteem  after  he  had  con- 
sented to  be  her  "cousin,"  on  the  day  when  she  had  taken 
him  into  her  confidence  about  Vernon. 

The  routine  of  life  at  Kingsworth  was  pleasantly  rest- 
ful after  London.  Nearly  every  morning  was  spent  in 
bathing  or  in  sitting  with  a  novel  in  her  lap  and  a  cigar- 
ette between  her  lips,  watching  the  warm  sea  splashing  in 
brilliant  foam  over  Durdle  Ledge.  In  the  afternoons  she 
would  either  go  for  walks  with  Danbury  or  Adam — to 

160 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  161 

Chapman's  Pool,  where  the  coastguards  had  a  hundred 
stories  about  smugglers  to  tell  her;  to  Kimmeridge,  with 
its  quarries  tunnelling  far  into  the  cliff ;  or  round  by  Durl- 
ston  Head  into  Swanage — or  else  play  interminable  games 
of  tennis  which  lasted  until  the  evening  shadows  made 
the  ball  almost  invisible. 

And  after  dinner  would  come  the  pleasantest  hours  of 
all,  the  quiet  evenings  spent  by  one  of  the  open  windows 
of  the  drawing-room,  looking  out  at  the  dark  violet-blue 
of  the  sky  all  jewelled  with  stars.  Danbury  would  try, 
morosely,  to  flirt  with  her ;  Mrs.  Henderson  would  work 
on  tranquilly  at  her  embroidery;  and  Adam  would  nod 
over  a  book  until  the  spirit  moved  him  to  walk  over  to 
her  chair  and  begin  talking.  Then  they  would  all  talk ; 
Mary  Henderson  would  join  in,  and  they  would  discuss 
every  subject  under  the  sun  until  far  into  the  night. 
Margot  loved  these  evenings.  They  made  her  realise 
how  much  more  interesting  and  attractive  people  are 
when  you  get  to  know  them.  It  occurred  to  her  that  one 
could  not  get  to  know  people  in  London ;  there  was  never 
time.  But  here  you  could  explore  other  minds,  learn 
things  from  them  and  about  them. 

The  more  Margot  saw  of  Mary  Henderson  the  more  she 
respected  and  liked  her,  until  at  last  her  affection  became 
almost  like  that  of  a  schoolgirl  for  a  mistress.  It  was 
chiefly  at  night  that  they  had  opportunities  for  long  talks, 
for  Mrs.  Henderson  had  a  thousand  good  works  to  occupy 
her  during  the  day.  She  spent  hours  in  the  village, 
where  everyone  loved  her,  asking  the  sick  about  their 
ailments  or  supervising  the  new  creche  which  had  proved 
such  a  success.  The  villagers  had  known  "Miss  Mary," 
as  they  still  called  her,  ever  since  her  earliest  childhood, 
and  had  always  loved  her,  not  only  for  her  own  sake, 
but  for  her  father's.  Old  Colonel  Blundell  had  ruled  his 


162  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

tenants  with  a  firm  hand,  but  he  had  looked  after  them. 
No  one  in  Kingsworth  had  ever  been  in  actual  want ;  no 
sick  person  had  suffered  from  a  lack  of  proper  nursing  or 
medical  treatment.  The  tradition  of  responsibility  had 
descended  to  Mary  Henderson,  and  as  her  "good  works" 
came  to  her  quite  naturally,  the  villagers  never  thought 
of  them  as  interference.  Sometimes  Margot  would  ac- 
company her  hostess  on  her  rounds,  and  she  grew  to  love 
the  dour  villagers  with  their  strange  ways,  their  peculiar 
delicacies  and  courtesies.  The  old  women  would  pour 
out  the  simple  story  of  their  ailments  and  their  worries 
to  Mrs.  Henderson,  going  into  intimate  details  without  a 
trace  of  embarrassment.  And  Margot,  finding  that  her 
companion  was  entirely  unshocked,  gradually  realised  that 
vulgarity  is  never  an  attribute  of  things  which  are  natural 
and  universal,  though  it  may  be  (and  often  is)  inherent 
in  a  description  of  them.  She  could  see,  however,  partly 
through  intuition  and  partly  through  noting  their  effect 
on  her  companion,  that  there  was  nothing  vulgar  or 
essentially  coarse  in  the  things  these  countrywomen  said. 
Even  the  bawdy  old  songs  in  the  Dorset  dialect,  with 
which  they  sent  their  babies  to  sleep,  had  a  simplicity 
and  a  sincerity  which  seemed  to  take  away  from  them 
any  suggestion  of  uncleanness. 

The  village  of  Kingsworth  was  curiously  rich  in  char- 
acters. Almost  every  grey  stone  cottage  in  the  one  long 
street  of  which  the  village  consisted  was  inhabited  by  a 
couple  who  differed  essentially  from  their  neighbours. 
They  were  not  "all  of  a  pattern,"  like  the  inhabitants  of 
Richbourne  Terrace.  One  afternoon,  Mrs.  Henderson 
took  Margot  with  her  to  visit  John  Vile,  who  was  reputed 
to  be  the  holiest  man  in  Dorset.  He  was  over  seventy 
years  old,  quite  deaf,  and  had  but  one  eye.  He  lived  in 
a  tiny  cottage  with  his  niece  Rosie.  Rosie  was  a  neat 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  163 

and  clean  young  widow  with  smiling  face  and  gay  brown 
eyes.  She  pursued  the  oldest  of  professions — or  the  pro- 
fession perhaps  pursued  her — but  she  did  it  because  she 
"never  could  stand  up  against  a  man."  She  was,  in  truth, 
a  man's  woman;  and  if  any  male  thing  near  her  hurt 
himself,  or  was  in  want  of  her  embraces,  or  even  of  her 
beer  and  bread  and  cheese,  she  was  miserable  if  she 
could  not  give  them.  Her  heart  would  melt  at  the  sight 
of  a  fine  upstanding  young  man.  Her  love  of  men  bred 
in  her  such  a  sweet  courtesy  that  it  was  a  delight  for 
anyone  to  go  to  her  cottage.  Even  the  doctor,  a  gnarled 
recluse  of  antiquarian  propensities,  who  took  the  gloom- 
iest views  about  the  human  race  in  general,  could  never 
quite  bring  himself  to  disapprove  of  Rosie.  As  for  John 
Vile,  he  would  sit  all  day  in  his  chair,  occasionally  smok- 
ing, and  always  deep  in  divine  meditation.  His  one 
bright  blue  eye  had  never  perceived  his  niece's  frailties, 
nor  would  it  have  been  turned  on  her  accusingly  if  it  had. 
When  Mrs.  Henderson  came  to  bring  him  his  tobacco 
and  to  inquire  after  his  rheumatism,  he  would  lift  up 
his  head  and  nod  it  in  motions  of  courtesy  before  turning 
on  her  his  brilliant  orb.  This  blue,  liquid,  fiery  eye 
fascinated  Margot.  It  was  just  the  same  colour  as  her 
own  eyes;  but  it  had  a  strangeness  in  its  depths  that 
held  her,  just  as  the  Ancient  Mariner  held  the  Wedding 
Guest.  It  was  as  though  a  young,  eager  soul — filled  with 
some  holy  satisfaction  or  possessing  some  divine  secret — 
were  looking  through  it.  No  one  who  encountered  John 
Vile's  peculiar  gaze  could  think  of  him  as  old.  In  the  vil- 
lage his  wisdom  was  famous,  and  it  was  well  known  that 
he  saw  visions.  The  fact  that  he  had  seen  the  local 
Baptist  preacher  come  up  the  street  surrounded  by  "seven 
lean  black  dogs  with  gert  tongues,  leaping  and  slavering," 
had  sealed  the  fate  of  that  individual  so  far  as  Kings- 


164  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

worth  was  concerned.  Adam  Henderson,  however,  had 
been  accompanied  by  "six  lily-white  meaids,  all  a-playing 
on  sackbuts  and  psalteries,  with  fire  to  their  boosums 
and  to  their  feet:  holy  meaids."  John  had  seen  these 
meaids  at  communion  time,  standing  on  either  side  of 
the  priest.  The  taking  of  the  sacrament  was  the  great 
event  in  his  life,  and  Sundays  were  radiant  for  him. 
"It  du  shine  strangely,  the  bread — all  with  white  light — 
and  I  du  hear  sweet  crashings  of  brass.  Tis  them 
cymbals  I  du  hear  a-playing  in  Heaven."  Rosie  would 
accompany  Uncle  John  in  order  to  help  him  up  the 
aisle  to  the  altar  rail.  She  liked  the  nice  sweet  wine 
the  vicar  handed  to  her,  accepting  the  sacrament  as  a 
child  accepts  something  not  understood,  about  which  its 
curiosity  has  not  been  aroused.  Occasionally  she  would 
think  about  the  "poor  dear  Man"  who  had  to  die  on  the 
Cross  and  whose  women  had  been  unable  to  save  Him 
pain.  It  was  characteristic  that  the  part  of  the  Bible 
story  which  most  affected  her  was  the  fact  that  Mary, 
Christ's  mother,  and  the  other  Mary  had  been  powerless 
to  sacrifice  themselves  to  save  Him  from  His  sorrow. 
For  a  woman  not  to  be  able  to  bear  a  man's  troubles 
for  him  and  ease  his  pains  struck  her  as  being  a  dreadful 
calamity.  She  understood  the  anguish  which  those  holy 
women  must  have  endured  as  they  wept  over  the  feet 
of  the  crucified  Jesus.  Rosie  was  indeed  of  a  thoroughly 
practical  and  kindly  habit  of  mind:  she  left  "the  'igh 
thinking  for  them  as  could  do  it." 

The  female  counterpart  of  old  John  Vile  was  Mrs. 
Isaac  Holden,  who  kept  house  for  her  son  in  a  bleak 
cottage  on  the  Kingsworth  House  estate,  which  stood  in 
a  hollow  in  the  cliff-side,  not  far  from  Chapman's  Pool. 
The  son  was  a  handsome  young  quarryman  who  worked 
at  Kimmeridge.  He  had  never  married,  because  of  his 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  165 

passion  for  Rosie.  His  family  traditions,  prevented  him 
from  wedding  a  "little  huzbird,"  yet  Rosie  held  him 
fast.  Mrs.  Holden,  whom  the  neighbours  were  apt  to 
describe  as  a  "regular  wold  chattermag,"  was  rather  cor- 
pulent and  unable  to  move  about  very  much.  She  would 
sit  for  hours  at  the  door  of  her  cottage  in  her  armchair 
supported  by  bright  red  cushions,  with  a  grey  shawl 
round  her  shoulders.  Her  white  hair  was  surmounted 
by  a  neat  linen  cap,  and  she  wore  a  large  cornelian 
brooch  on  her  bosom.  The  chief  peculiarities  of  Mrs. 
Holden's  appearance  were  the  pinkness  of  her  cheeks, 
her  cheerfulness,  and  the  fact  that  one  of  her  eyes  was 
dark  blue,  the  other  brown.  She  spent  most  of  the  day 
listening  to  the  music  of  a  canary,  which,  she  was  con- 
vinced, had  in  some  mysterious  way  got  right  into  her 
head  and  had  remained  there  caged.  When  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson and  Margot  visited  her,  her  face  would  light  up 
with  a  beatific  smile;  she  would  nod  her  head  slowly 
up  and  down,  and,  raising  one  gnarled  finger,  would 
say:  "Listen,  dearie,  it's  singing  now,  it's  singing 
now!"  The  canary  was  the  one  great  interest  of  her 
life,  her  one  topic  of  conversation.  Sometimes,  on  her 
more  wandering  days,  it  transformed  itself  into  a  choir 
of  angels,  and  her  satisfaction  became  still  greater. 

The  charm,  to  Margot,  of  the  Kingsworth  villagers 
lay  in  the  distinctness  of  their  personalities.  There  was, 
for  instance,  old  Mrs.  Holden  with  her  canary  in  the 
brain  and  her  odd  eyes;  Rosie  the  "gert  strumpet,"  for 
whom  no  one  had  a  hard  word;  and  the  saintly  John 
Vile,  her  uncle.  Then  again  there  was  the  village  miser, 
William  Beeney,  who,  in  spite  of  a  bag  of  sovereigns 
buried  in  a  safe  place,  made  constant  efforts  to  get  into 
the  "house,"  and  lived  on  old  crusts  of  bread  and  stolen 
potatoes;  and  the  village  spendthrift,  young  Farmer 


166  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

Dabinett.  Dabinett  wore  a  suit  of  checks,  a  mustard- 
colour  fancy  waistcoat,  and  a  stock  adorned  with  a  gold 
tie-pin  representing  a  fox's  head.  He  had  been  to  Lon- 
don— with  adventures  of  a  lurid  character  in  Leicester 
Square — and  at  thirty  was  already  bibulous  and  half- 
ruined,  while  his  amours  were  a  parish  scandal.  Mrs. 
Henderson  told  Margot  that  it  was  well  known  to  anti- 
quaries that  Jo  Dabinett  had  some  of  the  most  illustrious 
blood  in  Europe  in  his  veins.  He  was  a  direct  descendant 
of  the  knightly  De  Albini's,  the  flower  of  mediaeval  chiv- 
alry, whose  lands  had  formerly  extended  far  into  the 
county  of  Somerset.  Both  "simple  faith"  and  "Norman 
blood"  were  therefore  to  be  found  among  the  inhabitants 
of  Kingsworth.  There  was  no  tedious  uniformity  about 
them;  nor  did  long  lives  passed  within  the  narrow  con- 
fines of  the  village  seem  in  any  way  to  limit  their 
originality  or  interest. 

Margot  realized  at  once  that  but  for  Mrs.  Henderson's 
illuminating  commentaries  she  might  never  have  had  the 
wit  to  see  below  the  surface. 

Mrs.  Henderson  had  a  way  of  opening  up  fresh  vistas 
for  the  mental  eye.  She  knew  her  villagers  better  than 
they  did  themselves,  and  her  comments  to  Margot  were 
revealing  and  suggestive.  She  seemed  to  have  the  knack 
of  making  them  interesting  through  her  own  intense 
interest  in  them.  This  absorption  in  the  lives  of  others 
was,  to  Margot,  a  new  and  fascinating  quality.  She  had 
never  tried  to  understand  other  people  before,  except  as  a 
protective  measure  against  fraud;  never  realised  that  it 
was  possible  to  become  interested  in  anyone  except  one- 
self. She  had  only  thought  about  people  hitherto  in 
relation  to  her  own  personal  advantage,  or  in  regard  to 
their  social  standing.  Somehow  since  she  had  been  at 
Kingsworth  she  had  completely  forgotten  about  "social 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  167 

standing."  The  household  in  which  she  now  lived  did 
not  bother  itself  about  that  kind  of  thing.  Margot  began 
slowly  to  realise  that  there  were  other  things  in  life, 
and  that  people  actually  existed  in  the  world  whose  be- 
haviour and  attitude  were  not  governed  by  ideas  of  profit 
or  advancement  but  by  abstractions,  religions,  codes  of 
honour,  loves  and  hates.  And  she  realised  that  these 
abstractions  were  the  only  things  that  really  mattered 
to  Mrs.  Henderson,  and  even,  though  perhaps  in  a  less 
degree,  to  Adam.  Adam,  whom  she  imagined  she  knew 
thoroughly,  was  becoming  more;  and  more  an  enigma  to 
her.  As  the  days  went  by  she  came  to  believe  that  those 
parts  of  him  which  she  understood — his  snobbishness, 
his  care  of  appearances,  his  "humbug" — were  only  small 
parts  of  him,  the  rotten  parts.  She  realised  after  a 
while  that,  although  by  the  side  of  his  wife  he  seemed 
a  pompous  sham,  there  was  really  something  in  him.  He 
had  loved  where  money  was — and  social  position  as  well 
— but  he  had  loved.  His  respect  and  affection  for  his 
wife  were  as  sincere  as  were  hers  for  him.  And  in  spite 
of  his  weakness  for  "swanking"  at  county  garden-parties, 
or  for  handing  the  cake  at  meetings  of  "influential  church- 
women"  engaged  in  fatuous  movements,  it  was  obvious 
that  he  sincerely  believed  in  the  religion  he  was  engaged 
in  teaching.  Though  his  prospectus  was  full  of  titled 
referees  and  his  curriculum  contained  subjects  which 
there  was  no  one  qualified  to  teach,  he  yet  ran  his  school 
admirably,  did  his  very  best  by  his  little  boys,  and  was 
extremely  successful  with  them.  No:  Adam  was 
bafflingly  complex.  He  had  as  keen  an  eye  to  the  main 
chance  as  she  had  herself ;  but  there  was  in  him  a  "some- 
thing beyond"  which  she  felt  she  lacked.  He  certainly 
had  not  been  like  this  during  the  Montreal  period — unless 
the  difference  was  that  in  those  days  she  had  been  too 


168  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

dull  to  perceive  it.  Perhaps  it  was  his  wife's  influence? 
Mary  Henderson  would  influence  anybody,  and  already, 
when  she  had  known  her  barely  a  month,  Margot  felt 
that  she  was  being  influenced  herself.  It  was  sheer  per- 
sonality that  did  it;  Mary  never  laid  down  the  law  or 
attempted  to  persuade  anybody  to  do  anything.  She 
never  suspected  evil;  and  her  way  of  taking  the  best  in 
everyone  for  granted  produced  an  immediate  response. 
Without  realising  exactly  how  she  had  gained  her  know- 
ledge, Margot  knew  instinctively  that  Mary  Henderson 
would  always  preserve  a  confidence,  was  incapable  of 
reading  a  letter  not  addressed  to  her,  or  of  being  unfaith- 
ful or  even  disrespectful  to  her  husband,  and  that  she 
would  always  fearlessly  do  what  she  believed  to  be  right, 
no  matter  what  might  be  the  worldly  consequences.  When 
Margot  debated  in  her  mind  whether  she  should  tell 
Mary/  Henderson  about  Vernon,  she  always  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  would  be  safer  to  say  nothing.  She 
was  afraid  her  ambitions — about  which  she  had  begun  to 
have  her  doubts — might  betray  themselves  if  she  con- 
fided her  secret.  She  knew  so  well  what  Mary  Hender- 
son would  think  about  them,  and  about  a  mercenary 
marriage.  .  .  . 

Margot  heard  frequently  from  Vernon,  and  the  eager 
tone  of  his  letters  showed  her  that  she  could  afford  to 
be  careless  in  her  replies.  She  was  quite  certain  that 
now,  with  a  little  management  and  skill,  she  could  land 
him  whenever  it  suited  her  to  do  so.  But  the  question 
was :  Did  she  really  want  him  ?  Was  it  all  worth  while  ? 
Until  recently  her  thoughts  of  marriage  had  been  con- 
nected exclusively  with  her  selfish,  worldly  aspirations. 
A  rich  husband  would  bring  her  power  and  freedom ;  fine 
clothes,  luxury,  social  success.  In  the  hurry  and  excite- 
ment of  her  life  in  London,  surrounded  as  she  had  been, 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  169 

at  the  Falkenheims,  by  an  atmosphere  of  refined  material- 
ism, it  was  not  unnatural  that  her  thoughts  should  have 
been  filled  with  ideas  of  this  kind.  Here,  however,  it 
was  all  different.  The  blue  August  days  were  leisurely 
and  tranquil.  If  she  liked,  by  shaking  off  Danbury,  who 
seemed  to  watch  her  every  movement,  she  could  be  all 
alone  for  a  whole  day.  Sometimes  she  would  go,  off  by 
herself,  taking  sandwiches  for  luncheon  and  a  novel, 
and  sit  alone  with  her  thoughts  in  some  sheltered  sun- 
bathed crevice  of  the  cliffs.  She  loved  the  sea  with  its 
mysterious  changing  colours,  loved  the  "many-twinkling 
smile"  of  the  waves  on  the  white  sand.  She  was  happy 
as  she  sat  thus,  with  the  rugged  cliffs  stretching  far 
away  to  right  and  left  of  her,  eating  her  food  out  of 
a  paper  packet  or  smoking  one  of  Danbury's  cigarettes ; 
she  was  happier  than  she  had  ever  been  since  the  days 
when  she  and  Loo  had  played  together  among  the  peach- 
trees  on  the  shores  of  Ontario.  In  these  days  of  solitude 
she  began  not  so  much  to  know  herself  as  to  realise  that 
she  had  a  self  to  know.  She  thought  often  of  Vernon, 
and  (rather  to  her  own  perplexity)  more  often  still  of 
Godfrey  Levett.  Her  determination  to  marry  Vernon 
remained  unshaken,  but  she  began  to  wonder  whether 
marriage  would  give  her  all  that  she  anticipated,  whether 
it  would  not  take  away  from  her  as  much  as  it 
gave.  .  .  . 

The  facts  of  human  existence,  in  the  village,  were  so 
much  less  veiled  than  they  were  in  London.  Margot 
had  always,  all  her  life,  resented  liberties  being  taken 
with  her  body.  The  idea  of  having  to  surrender  herself 
to  any  man's  physical  subjection  was  revolting  to  her; 
and  Vernon,  for  all  his  air  of  refinement  and  reserve, 
was  not,  in  any  case,  the  man  she  would  have  chosen. 
And  all  that  she  had  seen  of  child-bearing  since  she  had 


i;o  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

been  at  Kingsworth  frightened  and  horrified  her.  Once 
when  she  had  been  walking  down  the  village  street  with 
Mrs.  Henderson  she  had  heard  a  woman  in  a  cottage 
moaning  in  agony.  And  yet  she  knew  that  the  greatest 
sorrow  in  Mrs.  Henderson's  life  was  that  she  had  no 
children.  .  .  .  Her  friend  would  have  given  anything 
to  suffer  that  anguish !  She  could  see  that  there  must  be 
something  wanting  in  a  marriage  if  one  had  no  children. 
To  have  a  nice  little  girl  to  bring  up  would  be  an  occupa- 
tion— something  to  think  about.  But,  on  the  whole,  the 
idea  of  the  physical  side  of  marriage — about  which,  for 
all  her  apparent  sophistication,  she  was  essentially 
ignorant — disquieted  her,  and  made  her  feel  unhappy. 
She  could  not  put  the  subject  out  of  her  mind ;  and  many 
times  it  was  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  ask  questions 
of  Mary  Henderson.  She  felt  the  need  of  confiding  in 
some  married  woman  who  would  comfort  her.  Rachel 
Elkington  must,  she  felt,  be  as  ignorant  as  she  was 
herself.  And  the  time  was  short.  She  felt  the  shadow 
of  the  coming  events  brooding  over  her.  She  knew  that 
these  quiet  weeks  were  like  a  lull  before  the  storms  of 
experience  burst  over  her  head,  and  that  if  she  did  not 
make  the  most  of  them  the  opportunity  would  be  for  ever 
gone.  But  she  did  not  know  where  to  turn,  and  when 
she  looked  into  her  own  heart  she  could  not  read  what 
it  had  to  tell  her.  .  .  . 

One  morning  towards  the  end  of  August  she  found  a 
letter  from  Vernon  on  the  round  oak  table  in  the  hall, 
when  she  came  down  to  breakfast. 

"My  dearest  Margot,"  it  said,  "great  news!  I  am 
coming  down  next  Monday  to  spend  September  with  the 
Heathcotes,  who  live  just  outside  Wareham.  I  believe 
that  is  quite  close  to  you,  and  I  hope  we  shall  meet. 
I  mean  to  come  over  to  call  on  the  first  available  after- 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  171 

noon,  so  please  write  to  say  you  will  be  pleased  to  see 
me.  It  has  been  too  boring  for  words  in  Scotland  with 
you  so  far  away. 

"Love,  from  your  devoted 

VERNON." 

She  felt  a  sinking  in  her  heart  when  she  had  taken  in 
the  contents  of  the  letter.  He  was  coming  to  Wareham 
on  Monday !  If  only  she  could  have  had  just  one  more 
month. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MARGOT  was  sitting  in  a  hammock  slung  in  the  dark, 
cathedral-like  shade  of  the  beech  wood  which  clothed  the 
lower  slopes  of  the  hill  between  Kingsworth  House  and 
the  sea.  The  wood  was  very  silent,  very  cool.  The  sun- 
light, filtering  through  the  leaves,  made  patterns  on  the 
ground,  and  little  plots  of  bright  light  alternated  with 
and  accentuated  the  green  gloom.  The  hammock  was 
slung  between  two  young  trees  at  a  point  where  the 
wood  was  less  thick,  and,  though  shaded  from  the  sun, 
Margot  could  see  its  rays  pouring  down  on  the  patch  of 
luxuriant  vegetation  close  to  her  feet.  By  turning  her 
head  she  could  also  look  far  along  the  solemn  aisles  of 
the  wood's  recesses,  where  the  sun  could  not  penetrate 
and  where  the  footsteps  of  man  and  beast  were  noiseless 
on  the  beech-mast.  This  particular  spot  was  one  of  her 
favourite  retreats  when  she  was  too  lazy  to  walk  as  far 
as  the  sea.  To-day  she  had  come  here  because  she 
expected  Vernon,  and  because  she  wanted  to  be  alone 
until  he  arrived  and  yet  to  remain  near  at  hand.  She 
treasured  these  last  moments  of  loneliness.  All  her  life, 
perhaps,  from  now  onwards,  she  would  live  constantly 
surrounded  by  others.  Even  her  bed  she  would  have 
to  share.  Always,  always  she  would  have  to  keep  up 
appearances,  to  make  conversation,  to  conceal  her  feel- 
ings, emotions,  thoughts.  Never  again,  once  she  married, 
would  she  have  any  more  privacy.  As  she  lay  stretched 
out  in  the  hammock  in  the  warm  greenness  of  the  wood 
she  wished  that  she  could  postpone  everything  for  just 
a  little  longer.  ...  To  rest  md  dream  in  this  tranquil 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  173 

paradise,  that  was  enough.  She  felt  that  her  whole 
nature,  since  she  had  been  at  Kingsworth,  had  changed. 
She  had  discovered  things  in  her  life  which  she  never 
knew  existed.  .  .  .  They  made  her  uneasy — dissatisfied 
with  the  future  she  had  marked  out  for  herself,  and  from 
which  she  felt  she  could  not  now  go  back. 

"Are  you  there,  Miss  Cartier?  .  .  .  Miss  Cartier!" 
It  was  Danbury 's  morose,  growling,  boyish  voice  whicK 
aroused  her  from  her  reverie. 

"Here  I  am,  in  the  hammock!"  she  called  out  in 
reply,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Danbury  stood  in  front  of 
her,  devouring  her  with  his  eyes.  He  was  dressed  in 
an  old  pair  of  flannel  trousers  with  a  white  canvas  shirt, 
open  at  the  neck  to  reveal  a  sunburnt  chest,  and  had  a 
pair  of  dirty  buckskin  tennis  shoes  on  his  feet.  He  stood 
before  Margot,  eyeing  her  all  over  with  furtive  admira- 
tion. There's  a  feller  turned  up  in  a  car,"  he  said  at  last. 
"He's  come  for  you,  I  think.  Sort  of  a  soldier  with  a 
bit  of  a  moustache  and  a  doggy  manner.  He's  doing  the 
'heavy*  now  to  Mrs.  Henderson  and  Adam.  You  don't 
want  to  rush  off  and  see  him  yet,  do  you?"  he  added 
persuasively,  blushing  at  his  own  boldness.  He  sank 
down  on  the  long  grass  by  the  side  of  the  hammock  and 
grasped  one  of  Margot's  hands.  Margot  felt  flattered  by 
the  emotions  of  this  dark-eyed  scamp,  but  in  spite  of  his 
extreme  youth  he  alarmed  her.  He  was  apparently  so 
inflammable  that  there  was  no  knowing  what  he  would 
do  next.  Before  she  could  answer  him  or  send  him 
away  he  had  leapt  to  his  feet  and  was  kissing  her 
furiously. 

"Danbury!"  she  cried.     "Shut  up,  you  little  beast!" 

He  held  her  so  firmly  that  she  could  hardly  move. 
She  could  hear  his  heart  thumping.  The  hammock 
swung  and  creaked  until — the  rope  being  already  half- 


174  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

worn  through — it  finally  gave  way,  and  Margot  and  her 
admirer  came  heavily  to  the  ground.  This  was  too  much 
for  her  good  nature,  and,  wrenching  herself  free,  she 
boxed  Danbury's  ears  as  hard  as  she  could: 

"You  darling!"  he  said,  looking  at  her  with  admira- 
tion, and  submitting  to  her  blow  without  moving  a  muscle. 
He  stood  with  drooping  head  and  rounded  shoulders 
looking  up  at  her  with  eyes  full  of  glowing  fire.  "Do  hit 
me  again!"  he  said.  "Bully  me.  I  wish  you  would!" 
She  made  as  if  to  strike  him  a  second  time,  but  her  hand 
dropped,  and  her  sense  of  humour  getting  the  better  of 
her,  she  went  off  into  a  peal  of  laughter.  Then,  pick- 
ing up  her  novel,  brushing  the  twigs  out  of  her  skirt, 
and  removing  the  disorder  which  Danbury's  embraces 
had  wrought  in  her  hair,  she  walked  back  with  him  to  the 
house. 

"He's  a  lucky  devil,  that's  all  I  can  say!"  Danbury 
remarked  when  they  caught  sight  of  Vernon  in  the 
distance,  standing  talking  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henderson. 
"Just  like  those  beastly  soldiers!  Stuck-up  asses!" 
When  they  got  nearer  Danbury  evaporated  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  servants'  quarters,  to  show  one  of  the 

gardeners  his  latest  Paris  photographs. 

***** 

"You've  been  very  prompt  in  keeping  your  word," 
Margot  remarked  when  she  was  alone  with  Vernon  after 
luncheon. 

"Yes.  Didn't  you  expect  me  to  be  prompt?  If  you 
only  knew  what  I  know,  you  wouldn't  wonder." 

A  smile,  like  the  smile  which  the  Jew  endeavours  to 
repress  when  he  has  just  got  the  better  of  the  Christian, 
spread  over  Margot's  face.  Vernon  described  it  to  him- 
self as  the  "love  light,"  and  his  heart  swelled  inside  him 
with  happiness.  She  really  cared!  He  touched  his 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  175 

Moustache  to  restore  himself  to  his  attitude  of  cynical 
unconcern. 

"Awful  jolly  place  this,"  he  remarked,  to  relieve  the 
tension.  "I  came  here  once,  as  a  boy,  in  Colonel  Blun- 
dell's  time.  Mrs.  Henderson  didn't  remember  me.  No 
reason  why  she  should  have  done,  of  course." 

They  walked  up  through  the  beech  wood  and  on  to  the 
hill.  From  the  top  of  it,  turning  their  backs  on  the  sea, 
they  looked  down  on  the  grey  mass  of  the  house,  with 
its  classic  elegance  and  beautiful  proportions,  standing 
amid  its  wonderful  English  lawns,  close-cropped  and 
vivid,  and  bordered  with  roses.  The  rooks  circled  caw- 
ing round  the  tops  of  the  trees — the  friendly  rooks. 

"It's  a  jolly  place,  isn't  it?"  Margot  said.  "My  cousin 
is  lucky." 

She  felt  Vernon's  glance  rest  on  her  for  a  moment 
through  his  dark,  beautiful  lashes. 

"By  Jove,  yes,"  he  agreed.  "Kingsworth  is  one  of  the 
finest  places  in  the  county." 

She  turned  away  and  they  walked  slowly  over  the 
crest  of  the  hill,  talking  of  London  and  of  their  friends — 
of  the  Fawsett  Vivians  and  the  Hollingtons,  of  Patcham 
and  Joyce,  and  the  Elkingtons  and  Godfrey  Levett. 

"I  met  Levett  in  Scotland,"  Vernon  remarked. 
"Instead  of  doing  any  shooting,  he  went  for  interminable 
walks  by  himself  round  the  shores  of  the  loch.  Touch 
of  the  mystic  about  that  fellow,  I  think.  The  artistic 
temperament,  I  suppose.  He  is  a  very  interesting  man, 
though,"  he  added  quickly,  in  his  character  of  literary 
amateur. 

Margot  drily  agreed,  suppressing  a  desire  to  giggle,  and 
they  went  on  talking  once  more  about  the  season's  dances. 

"Do  you  know,"  Vernon  remarked  suddenly,  "I  called 
on  your  friends  the  Falkenheims  a  few  days  after  you 


176  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

had  gone.  The  atmosphere  seemed  positively  arctic,  and 
they  glared  at  me  when  I  mentioned  your  name.  I  sup- 
pose they  were  jealous  because  you  rushed  off  to  stay 
with  your  relations  and  left  them  in  the  lurch  over  their 
dance?" 

"It  wasn't  exactly  that,"  said  Margot.  "You  see,  Mr. 
Falkenheim  and  I  had  a  difference  of  opinion."  Vernon 
nodded  his  head  solemnly,  with  an  air  of  precisely  under- 
standing what  she  meant,  'which  would  have  misled  any- 
one who  knew  him  less  well  than  Margot  did.  She  paused 
for  a  moment,  wondering  what  she  had  better  say.  Then, 
deciding  that  the  safest  plan  is  always  to  carry  the  war 
into  the  enemy's  country,  she  remarked,  "You  see, 
Vernon,  Mr.  Falkenheim  thought  his  position  as  my  host 
gave  him  certain  privileges  .  .  .  and  I  didn't  think  so. 
So  I  came  away  rather  quickly.  That  was  just  what 
happened." 

Vernon  grew  pink  under  his  bronze,  and  Margot 
noticed  the  effect  of  her  words  on  him  with  an  amazed 
and  gratified  curiosity.  "Filthy  old  brute,"  he  hissed 
through  his  moustache.  "These  beastly  Jews  make 
London  intolerable.  We  teach  them  to  behave  them- 
selves in  public,  and  to  wash,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing 
.  .  .  but  whenever  they  get  half  a  chance.  ..." 

Margot  felt  once  more  a  dangerous  desire  to  laugh,  but 
she  was  magnanimous  instead.  Slipping  her  arm  through 
Vernon's  with  a  movement  of  friendliness  and  trust, 
which  again  sent  the  blood  to  his  head,  she  remarked: 
"Now  that  is  quite  enough  about  the  silly  old  Falken- 
heims.  He  was  very  kind  to  me,  after  all.  And  we 
should  never  have  met  if  it  hadn't  been  for  him.  So 
don't  let  us  refer  to  them  any  more!  Isn't  this  air 
delicious?"  They  walked  along  to  the  cliff  overlooking 
Chapman's  Pool  and  sat,  with  their  legs  hanging  over 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  177 

the  edge,  looking  down  at  the  rock-girt  bay,  so  wild  and 
beautiful  in  its  loneliness.  "This  is  the  loveliest  place  I 
have  seen  in  my  whole  life,"  she  said — with  perfect 
sincerity — "and  I  should  like  never  to  have  to  leave  it." 

"You  would  soon  get  sick  of  it  in  the  winter,"  Vernon 
remarked  with  irritating  literalness.  "You  would  want 
London  then !" 

As  they  walked  back  through  the  wood  to  Kingsworth 
House,  Margot  knew  that  he  would  try  to  kiss  her  if  he 
could  do  it  without  being  too  commonplace,  and  that  he 
was  longing  to  ask  her  for  her  reply,  and  if  it  was  "Yes" 
to  marry  her  at  once.  But  she  did  not  want  him  to  ask 
her  too  quickly.  She  determined  to  prevent  him  if  she 
could.  She  knew  that  if  he  did  it  walking  through  a 
wood  on  an  August  afternoon  he  would  try  to  be  clever 
about  it,  would  attempt  an  epigram  or  some  peculiar 
trick  which  should  emphasise  his  original  point  of  view. 
At  the  moment  when  she  said  "Yes"  to  him,  she  wanted 
to  be  like  all  the  other  girls  in  all  the  novels  she  had 
read.  She  wanted  moonlight  and  a  trembling  male  voice 
whispering  "Dearest,"  followed  by  an  amorous  languish- 
ing against  a  white  shirt-front.  Perhaps  she  would  have 
the  same  emotions  as  everyone  else  if  it  happened  like 
that.  There  would  be  the  perfume  of  the  roses  to  go  to 
her  head,  and  the  tobacco  plants  in  the  West  Garden 
would  open  their  pale  white  blossoms  and  gaze  at  her. 
Her  visualisation  of  the  scene  was  so  vivid  that  she  could 
feel  in  imagination  the  coldness  of  the  shirt-front  against 
her  breast.  ...  In  about  a  week's  time,  or  possibly  in 
ten  days  or  a  fortnight,  she  felt  she  would  be  ready  for 
her  third  act. 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  stay  at  the  Heathcotes*  ?" 
she  asked. 

"Oh,  a  few  weeks,  I  expect,"  he  replied,  adding 
naively,  "or  perhaps  until  you  send  me  away !" 


i/8  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

"Why  should  I  send  you  away?"  she  said,  hanging 
her  head  a  little  and  turning  away  from  him. 

"Well,  I  think  you  are  cruel  enough  for  anything,  my 
dearest!"  he  whispered,  slipping  his  arm  through  hers. 
"Isn't  it  a  bore?"  he  went  on,  in  his  normal  conversa- 
tional voice.  "I  shall  have  to  run  over  to  Highmere — 
that's  our  place  in  Surrey,  you  know — either  to-morrow 
or  the  day  after.  No  sooner  had  I  arrived  and  settled 
down  than  Mrs.  Heathcote  brought  me  in  a  telegram 
from  the  Guv'nor.  Particularly  wants  to  see  me  about 
something.  Hopes  I  can  make  it  convenient  to  run  home 
for  a  night !  It  is  not  in  the  least  convenient." 

"What  is  it  he  wants  to  see  you  about?"  Margot 
asked,  white  to  the  lips. 

"I  simply  haven't  a  notion.  He  always  takes  a  most 
uncomfortable  interest  in  my  affairs.  I  suppose  he  wants 
to  haul  me  over  the  coals  about  something.  But  don't 
let  us  talk  about  him,  Margot,"  Vernon  said.  "Let  us 
talk  about  us  I  We  shall  be  sitting  having  tea  in  your 
cousin's  drawing-room  in  ten  minutes'  time  discussing 
Shakespeare  and  the  musical  glasses.  You  haven't  said 
if  you  are  glad  to  see  me." 

"And  I  haven't  ever  said  you  might  call  me  Margot," 
she  replied  coquettishly.  They  stopped  simultaneously 
and  stood  looking  at  one  another  in  the  shadowy  still- 
ness of  the  beech  wood.  She  was  wearing  a  diaphanous 
white  dress,  which  allowed  the  rounded  fulness  of  her 
breast  to  be  divined,  and  at  the  same  time  emphasised 
her  radiant  youth.  Her  sudden  pallor  of  apprehension 
had  given  way  now  to  a  delicate  flush,  which  extended 
even  to  the  back  of  her  neck.  Her  bosom  was  troubled ; 
she  seemed  all  at  once  deliciously  ill  at  ease. 

Vernon  was  unable  to  speak  with  emotion,  and  stood 
looking  at  her,  pulling  his  moustache.  He  knew,  as  he 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  179 

thought,  the  signs  of  conquest  so  well.  He  could  not 
be  mistaken!  Yet,  since  his  affection  for  her  was  the 
sincerest  feeling  which  he  had  yet  experienced  in  his  life, 
he  remained  tongue-tied.  At  last  passion  gave  him  spon- 
taneity, and  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  let  his  lips  rest 
on  her  forehead.  "My  dearest  girl,"  he  said  hoarsely, 
"you  don't  know  how  I  adore  you !" 

"Don't,  Vernon!"  she  cried.  She  used  his  Christian 
name  caressingly,  and  the  sound  of  it  sent  thrills  down 
his  spine.  "I  wish  you  hadn't  done  this.  We  were  good 
friends  before.  I'm  not  the  kind  of  girl  you  think  I  am. 
I  can't  explain.  But  these  sort  of  things  mean  something 
to  me.  ..."  She  wondered  if  she  had  said  too  much 
or  too  little;  but  the  news  about  his  father's  telegram 
spurred  her  to  take  risks.  "I  daresay  you  think  I'm  just 
a  flirt,  but  I  hate  insincerity,"  she  went  on.  .  .  . 

Vernon's  hold  on  her  did  not  loosen,  and  she  experi- 
enced a  certain  sense  of  well-being  that  was  partly  ela- 
tion, partly  a  physical  satisfaction.  Vernon's  reply  was 
inarticulate. 

"You  little  witch,"  she  thought  he  said.  "You  know 
you've  got  me  bound  hand  and  foot.  I  haven't  had  a 
moment's  peace  since  that  evening  at  the  Vivians'.  I 
love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you!  .  .  .N  Don't  say  you 
won't  have  me.  I'll  make  you.  I've  got  you,  and  I 
won't  give  you  up.  .  .  .  Say  you  care  just  a  little.  But 
I  don't  believe  you  do.  You  are  as  hard  as  stone." 

A  note  of  abject  misery  crept  into  Vernon's  voice  when 
he  complained  of  her  hardness. 

"I'm  not  hard,  Vernon,"  Margot  whispered.  "If  you 
only  knew !" 

Suddenly  she  found  herself  crying — she  knew  not  why 
in  the  very  least,  unless  her  tears  were  caused  by  relief 
after  intense  anxiety — but  she  was  aware  that  it  was  an 


i8o  MZRGOT'S  PROGRESS 

excellent  thing  to  be  doing.  Vernon  kissed  her  wet  eyes, 
murmuring  incoherent  endearments,  and  then  his  lips 
sought  hers  in  an  anguish  of  love.  She  yielded  her  mouth 
to  his,  and  her  body  became  limp  in  his  arms.  .  .  . 
"Dearest,"  he  said,  "when  will  you  marry  me?  What 
is  there  to  wait  for?  You  do  care  for  me,  don't 


you 


She  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  that  were  softened 
by  her  tears.  "You  ought  to  know,"  she  whispered, 
and  when  she  had  said  the  words  she  watched,  with 
mingled  fascination  and  alarm,  the  expression  which 
came  over  his  face.  He  was  like  a  man  transformed, 
transfigured.  All  his  mannerism  had  dropped  from  him. 
He  seemed  years  younger  and  nicer;  curiously  simple. 
And  suddenly  she  realised  his  beauty,  as  he  stood  watch- 
ing her  all  on  fire  with  passion.  His  crisp  brown  hair 
waved  over  his  forehead;  his  fine  hazel  eyes  glittered 
through  his  long  lashes ;  his  bronzed  skin  was  clear  and 
healthy.  She  noticed  what  narrow  and  yet  strong  wrists 
he  had,  noticed  the  ripple  of  his  muscles  under  his  thin 
summer  clothes.  And  she  liked  the  way  his  hair  grew 
from  the  back  of  his  neck.  And  she  had  got  him,  got 
him  for  good !  .  .  . 

They  walked  on  slowly,  hand  in  hand,  like  children. 
Then  Vernon  stopped  and  took  her  in  his  arms  again  and 
kissed  her.  "My  dearest,"  he  said,  "when  will  you 
marry  me?  You  will  marry  me,  won't  you?" 

"If  you  really  want  me  to,  Vernon,"  she  replied 
simply.  "But  don't  let  us  have  a  fuss  about  it,  my 
dear,"  she  added.  "I'm  not  like  other  girls.  I  should 
just  hate  a  great  function."  It  was  bitter  to  Margot  to 
have  to  say  this,  but  she  knew  the  longer  she  delayed 
things  the  more  opportunities  she  would  give  Sir 
William. 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS.  181 

"I  am  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  Margot,"  Vernon 
answered.  "That  means  we  can  be  'married  at  once, 
doesn't  it?  And  tell  everyone  about  it  when  it  is  all 
over?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Margot,  lifting  her  face  again 
to  be  kissed.  "But  I  say,  my  dearest  boy,  we  shall 
make  ourselves  conspicuous  if  we  don't  hurry  up.  Tea 
must  be  nearly  over!" 

"Come  on  then,  let's  run,"  laughed  Vernon.  For  a 
moment  he  looked  like  a  young  god,  and  as  they  hurried 
joyously  through  the  wood  and  across  the  lawns  to  the 
house,  Margot  thought  she  liked  him  far  better  than  she 
had  ever  expected.  Her  great  contentment  irradiated 
her  face  and  made  her  eyes  shine  with  happiness. 

"Adam,  they  are  in  love,  those  two,"  whispered  Mary 
Henderson  to  her  husband,  as  they  stepped  through  the 
open  window  into  the  drawing-room  where  the  tea  was 
already  nearly  cold. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

As  Vernon  steered  his  car  along  the  drive  leading  up 
to  West  Frome  House,  after  his  visit  to  Margot,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Heathcote  walked  across  their  lawns  to  meet 
him.  Mrs.  Heathcote,  who  was  a  cousin  of  Vernon's 
mother,  was  stout,  and  walked  with  the  aid  of  an  ebony 
walking-stick.  She  had  shrewd  grey  eyes,  a  pretty,  old- 
fashioned  trick  of  gesture  and  the  reputation  for  a  caus- 
tic wit.  In  her  youth  she  had  been  a  noted  beauty,  and 
was  credited,  in  local  legends,  with  having  moved  in 
those  famous  "fast"  circles  of  the  eighteen-seventies 
where  royalty  played  baccarat.  She  herself  neither 
denied  nor  confirmed  these  rumours.  She  lived  quietly 
and  contentedly  with  her  tall,  white-moustached  hus- 
band, who  farmed  some  of  his  own  land,  was  a  keen 
supporter  of  the  hunt,  a  Justice  of  the  Peace,  and  whose 
hobby  was  the  breeding  of  a  certain  kind  of  spaniel. 
Ronald  Heathcote  belonged  to  a  respectable  club  in 
London,  which  he  rarely  visited,  and  to  the  London 
Library,  from  which  institution  'large  books  about  dogs 
or  about  the  latest  American  methods  of  scientific  farm- 
ing were  sent  to  him  periodically  and  devoured  in  his  den 
over  interminable  cigars.  His  days  were  fully  taken  up 
with  occupations  which  would  have  seemed  of  infinitesi- 
mal importance  to  second-rate  minds.  He  was  content  to 
fill  his  allotted  place  in  life,  and  considered  it  his  duty 
to  accept  its  responsibilities  whilst  enjoying  its  pleasures. 
Tie  desired  no  other  habitation  than  the  small  Elizabethan 
manor  house,  built  of  grey  Purbeck  stone,  which  had 
been  for  generations  in  his  family,  and  the  fabric  of 

182 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  183 

which  his  wife's  fortune  had  enabled  him  to  restore.  He 
believed  with  the  Psalmist  that  his  lot  had  been  cast  in 
bello  campo,  and  he  was  grateful  and  without  ambi- 
tion. 

As  he  walked  over  the  lawn  with  his  wife,  in  the 
clear  light  and  lengthening  shadows  of  the  late  after- 
noon, he  experienced  a  vague  feeling  of  irritation  against 
Vernon.  He  liked  young  men  to  be  a  little  less  highly 
varnished;  to  have  a  certain  fine  roughness  about  them. 

"You  know,  John,  he  has  some  affaire  du  cceur  in  our 
neighbourhood,  otherwise  he  would  never  have  come 
down  to  stay  with  us  at  the  end  of  August !" 

Vernon  waved  his  hand  when  he  saw  his  hosts,  smiling 
at  them  boyishly  and  showing  his  beautiful  teeth.  He 
took  the  car  round  to  the  garage  himself  and  then  joined 
them  on  the  terrace  to  watch  the  peacocks  being  fed. 
Somehow  the  view  from  the  terrace  across  the  valley  of 
the  Frome,  with  the  symmetrical  phalanx  of  elm  trees 
on  either  hand  and  the  blue  Purbeck  hills  in  the  distance, 
had  never  before  seemed  to  him  so  lovely.  What  an 
exquisite  spot  this  was ;  and  why  had  he  avoided  coming 
down  here  for  so  many  years?  The  last  time  he  came, 
he  reflected,  was  in  the  year  he  left  Sandhurst.  Hence- 
forward the  place  would  always  be  doubly  dear  to  him. 
The  refrain,  "She  loves  me;  she  loves  me;  she  loves 
me,"  echoed  like  rapturous  music  in  his  brain.  Margot, 
the  goddess  with  the  china-blue  eyes,  who  had  made  him 
suffer  so  by  her  cruelty,  loved  him  at  last,  had  accepted 
him !  That  afternoon  he  had  seen  the  look  in  her  adored 
eyes  which  he  had  seen  in  the  eyes  of  so  many  hundreds 
of  women  for  whom  he  had  cared  nothing.  It  was  un- 
mistakable! She  loved  him  as  much  as  he  loved  her. 
Their  marriage  would  be  one  long  idyll  of  happiness. 
She  would  be  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  London.  Al- 


184  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

ways  he  would  be  envied  for  having  secured  her ;  it  would 
be  conclusive  proof  of  his  ascendancy  over  women.  The 
fact  that  he  knew  nothing  about  her  birth  and  parentage 
—a  fact  which  had  sometimes  troubled  him  during  the 
first  stages  of  their  intimacy — now  worried  him  no  more. 
Was  she  not  related  to  Mary  Henderson,  who  was  one  of 
the  Blundells  of  Kingsworth.  Mary  Henderson  had,  par 
excellence,  that  magic  cachet  which  the  Falkenheims  had 
lacked:  the  inherited  gift  for  making  anyone  met  under 
her  roof  automatically  "all  right." 

The  procession  of  the  peacocks,  followed  by  their  hens, 
passed  close  beneath  him,  giving  a  curious  Renaissance 
flavour  to  the  scene.  Ronald  Heathcote  observed  them 
with  the  attention  of  an  ornithologist  studying  "habits"; 
but  Mrs.  Heathcote  looked  quizzically  from  the  peacocks 
to  Vernon,  and  from  Vernon  back  again  to  the  peacocks. 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  raillery  as  she  asked  him  why  he 
was  "looking  so  pleased  with  himself."  Vernon  red- 
dened becomingly,  and  laughed. 

"If  you  really  want  to  know  the  reason,  Aunt  Georgy," 
he  said,  with  one  hand  on  his  moustache,  "I'll  tell  you. 
I've  just  been  accepted  by  the  girl  I  propose  to  marry. 
Her  name  is  Margot  Cartier.  She  is  a  Canadian  girl,  and 
a  cousin  of  the  Hendersons  of  Kingsworth.  She  is  stay- 
ing there  with  them  now.  ..." 

"My  dear  Vernon,  I  congratulate  you — both!  I  think 
I  met  the  girl  at  a  garden-party  last  week.  Fair  hair  and 
blue  eyes,  and,  forgive  me,  just  a  suspicion  of  a  colonial 
manner  ?" 

"Yes,  that  sounds  like  Margot.  Didn't  you  think  her 
lovely?"  said  Vernon.  "I  know  you  will  like  her,  and 
I  think  my  mother  and  father  will,  too.  I  haven't  told 
them  yet,  but  my  father,  for  some  reason  of  his  own, 
has  wired  to  me  to-day  to  go  to  Highmere  for  a  night. 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  185 

I  can't  imagine  what  he  wants  me  for.    However,  it  will 
give  me  an  opportunity  of  announcing  the  news." 

"Yes,  it  will  give  you  that,  I  expect,"  Mrs.  Heathcote 
commented,  casting  a  sidelong  glance  at  her  handsome 
kinsman.  She  was  fond  of  Vernon,  and  strove  to  appear 
enthusiastic,  but  she  found  it  difficult.  It  occurred  to 
her  forcibly  that  Sir  William  Stokes  would  find  it  dif- 
ficult too.  Try  how  she  would,  she  could  not  stifle  her 
disappointment. 

"My  dear  boy,  I  hope  you  will  both  be  very  happy 
indeed,"  she  said,  as  they  turned  their  backs  on  the 
peacocks.  But  all  the  while  she  felt  a  resentment  against 
Margot — a  wretched  colonial  interloper — for  cutting  in 
and  spoiling  the  market.  She  had  no  children  of  her 
own,  but  she  had  a  strong  class  feeling,  combined  with 
maternal  instincts.  She  had  hoped  better  of  Vernon; 
and  when  she  had  received  his  letter  inviting  himself  to 
West  Frome  for  the  end  of  August  and  the  beginning  of 
September,  it  had  occurred  to  her  with  delight  that  one  at 
least  of  the  three  "really  nice"  girls  who  would  be  stay- 
ing in  the  house  at  that  time  would  suit  him  to  perfec- 
tion. She  had  allowed  her  imagination  to  dwell  on  the 
pleasant  prospect  of  a  marriage  between  Vernon  and  Ida 
Mertoun.  Now  all  her  hopes  were  dashed  and  her  plans 
frustrated  by  some  scheming  little  Canadian,  with  no 
breeding;  a  creature  only  one  degree  better  than  the 
chorus. 

The  three  "really  nice"  girls  appeared  round  the 
corner  of  the  house  carrying  rackets  and  forming  a  sort 
of  guard  of  honour  to  a  curate,  of  the  muscular  Christ- 
ian type,  who  had  been  playing  tennis  with  them.  As 
Mrs.  Heathcote  watched  them  and  paused,  leaning  on  her 
ebony  stick,  to  allow  them  to  approach,  she  could  not 
stifle  the  inevitable  comparisons  between  her  own  day  and 


186  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

the  present,  which  old  people  find  so  tormenting,  and 
from  which  simultaneously  they  derive  so  much  satis- 
faction. Here  were  three  girls  of  unimpeachable  birth 
and  breeding  and  of  adequate  fortune,  and  yet  how  im- 
possible it  seemed  that  they  should  find  satisfactory 
husbands.  Chorus  girls,  musical  comedy  queens,  vulgar 
little  adventuresses — all  outclassed  them.  A  woman, 
nowadays,  needed  but  to  be  thoroughly  common  and  to 
have  a  certain  type  of  robust  good  looks  to  snap  up  the 
kind  of  man  who  in  an  earlier  generation  would  barely 
have  consented  to  make  her  his  mistress.  It  was  all  a 
tangle.  As  Mrs.  Heathcote  grew  older  it  pained  her  to 
see  the  increasingly  daring  lengths  to  which  "really  nice" 
girls  were  forced  to  go,  in  the  stress  of  competition. 
Whenever  she  came  across  a  girl  dressed  up  in  imitation 
of  some  lesser  light  of  musical  comedy  or  bedizened  like 
a  "fairy"  in  the  effort  to  be  the  kind  of  thing  that  "our 
sort  of  men"  appreciate,  her  heart  would  bleed  with 
sympathetic  understanding.  .  .  . 

Her  three  guests  who  surrounded  the  captive  curate 
belonged  to  three  distinct  types  of  "nice"  girl.  The 
oldest  of  the  three,  Lady  Agatha  Blackf  ord,  was  a  washed- 
out  blonde  with  rather  pretty  feet,  who  openly  pro- 
claimed (and  bewailed)  the  fact  that  she  would  end  up 
in  a  rectory  if  she  could  only  find  a  parson  sufficiently 
restful.  She  was  an  accomplished  bazaar  stall-holder, 
attender  of  "meetings,"  and  organiser  of  charity  con- 
certs. She  felt  that  since  that  was  really  all  she  could  do, 
she  had  better  go  on  doing  it.  At  the  present  moment  she 
was  exercising  a  subtle  proprietary  interest  in  the  Rev- 
erend Cuthbert  Aitkinson,  M.A.  Mr.  Aitkinson  was  not 
only  an  enthusiastic  tennis  player,  but  had  also  got  his 
blue  for  rowing  in  the  Cambridge  boat  in  his  last  year  at 
the  University.  He  possessed  an  open,  well-shaven  conn- 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  187 

tenance,  and  his  address  at  forty-five  would  certainly  be 
The  Close!  The  other  two  girls  did  not  seriously  com- 
pete with  Lady  Agatha.  One  of  them,  Ishbel  Blount,  a 
dark  creature  with  something-  bold  and  passionate  in 
her  temperament,  had  early  succumbed  to  the  mat  du 
sitcle,  and  had  almost  forced  herself  upon  the  first  man 
for  whom  she  had  cared,  determined  to  give  him  all  that 
he  could  find  or  buy  elsewhere.  She  now  had  the  unmis- 
takable "married"  look  characteristic  of  a  certain  type 
of  modern  girl.  As  the  years  went  by  and  her  lover's 
reasons  for  not  marrying  her  grew  increasingly  compli- 
cated and  imaginative,  her  haggard  and  worried  appear- 
ance grew  more  and  more  noticeable  under  her  paint. 
The  third  girl,  Ida  Mertoun,  on  whose  chances  with 
Vernon  Mrs.  Heathcote  had  hitherto  been  counting,  had 
not  yet  definitely  settled  on  her  plan  of  attack,  though 
with  Vernon  she  favoured  the  "literary  and  artistic" 
note.  She  was  indeed  in  a  fair  way  to  becoming  a 
charming  little  precieuse  ridicule;  but  she  had  youth  and 
freshness  in  her  favour,  as  well  as  a  certain  ardour  of 
temperament  which  suggested  romantic  possibilities,  and 
translated  itself  in  the  ballroom  into  an  emphatic  style 
of  dancing  when  her  mother's  eye  was  not  upon  her. 
There  was  nothing  in  Vernon's  temperament,  however, 
to  dart  out  in  answer  to  Ida's.  He  hated,  particularly, 
to  see  thoroughly  nice  girls  like  Ida  disporting  themselves 
in  a  marked  manner  with  inferior  men.  That  sort  of 
thing  was  thoroughly  bad  style.  Had  she  been  able  to 
dance  exclusively  with  himself  he  might  have  condoned 
her  abandon.  He  had  very  strict  views  about  ballrooms, 
and  hated  the  men  he  met  in  them,  except  those  who 
belonged  to  his  own  set,  in  his  own  profession,  or  who 
happened  to  stay  in  the  particular  houses  which  he  him- 
self was  in  the  habit  of  visiting.  Of  the  others — of  the 


1 88  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

complicated,  diverse,  and  thrilling  mass,  with  its  infinite 
possibilities  and  surprises,  its  varied  interests  and  un- 
expected abilities — he  was  suspicious  and  disdainful. 
Even  among  soldiers  he  was  difficult  to  please,  and  the 
poor,  hard-working  enthusiast  in  a  line  regiment,  with 
rather  gauche  manners,  no  money,  and  a  love  for  his 
profession,  came  in  especially  for  his  scorn.  He  often 
told  a  story  how  on  one  occasion,  when  on  a  voyage  out 
to  India,  he  had  made  a  point  of  speaking  to  all  the 
passengers  except  his  "brother  officers."  He  put  a  world 
of  meaning  into  this  anecdote;  and  the  kind  of  people 
to  whom  he  recounted  it  would  solemnly  nod  their  heads 
in  sympathy. 

Ida  came  straight  up  to  Vernon,  swinging  her  tennis 
racket,  skilfully  detached  him  from  the  rest  of  the  group, 
and  headed  him  off  once  more  towards  the  terrace. 

While  they  stood  looking  at  the  lovely  view  over  the 
Frome  she  began  to  talk  to  him  in  low  tones  about  the 
"poetry  of  eventide."  She  reminded  him  of  their  con- 
versation at  the  Fawsett  Vivians'  dance  about  Meredith, 
and  asked  him  if  he  had  read  "Diana  of  the  Crossways." 
Vernon  felt  so  happy,  so  complacent,  that  he  was  quite 
willing  to  talk  Meredith,  and  looking  down  at  Ida  through 
his  eyelashes,  in  a  way  which  fluttered  that  maiden's 
heart,  he  told  her  that  Mrs.  Warwick  was  one  of  his 
favourite  Meredithian  characters.  Mrs.  Heathcote,  who 
had  been  trying  to  persuade  the  curate  to  stop  to  dinner 
by  telling  him  he  need  not  bother  to  change,  came  up  to 
them  and  overheard  a  part  of  the  conversation.  A 
little  spasm  of  annoyance  came  over  her:  "My  dear 
Vernon,"  she  said,  "  'The  Egoist'  is  the  novel  you  ought 
to  read,  you  know.  You  have  a  leg!"  She  was  never 
more  delightful  in  manner  than  when  her  humour  had  a 
sub-acid  flavour!  She  smiled  at  Vernon,  and  then,  tak- 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  189 

ing  his  arm  affectionately,  began  to  walk  back  with  him 
to  the  house. 

The  cheerful  voices  of  the  party  rose  up  into  the  still 
evening  air,  and  in  gently  modulated  tones  the  curate 
(who  had  yielded  to  persuasion)  remarked: 

"I  never  thought  we  should  win  that  last  game  from 
them  Lady  Agatha.  It  was  your  service  that  did  it, 
you  know  .  .  .  !" 

Vernon  went  off  into  the  library  after  dinner  and 
wrote  Margot  a  long  love-letter.  He  was  so  happy  that  he 
would  have  let  his  Aunt  Georgy  chaff  him  by  the  hour 
together  if  she  had  wanted  to!  The  only  cloud  which 
marred  his  utter  contentment  was  the  thought  of  having 
to  waste  a  whole  twenty- four  hours  at  Highmere  with  his 
parents.  He  would  not  be  able  to  see  his  adored  one 
until  the  day  after  to-morrow !  The  more  he  thought  of 
his  approaching  visit  to  Highmere  the  more  the  necessity 
for  it  irritated  him.  Every  day  now  that  he  spent  away 
from  the  sight  and  sound  of  his  beloved  would  be  a  day 
of  torture.  From  this  moment  he  wanted  to  be  always 
with  her,  never  to  be  separated  from  her  even  for  an 
hour. 


"Mv  dear  boy,  it  is  quite  a  long  time  since  we  saw 
you!"  said  Lady  Stokes  when  she  had  kissed  her  son, 
who  had  just  arrived  from  West  Frome  in  his  two-seater. 
"Don't  you  think  you  could  stay  with  us  over  the  week- 
end? Surely  Aunt  Georgy  would  spare  you.  .  .  .  ?" 
Vernon  sank  down  into  the  empty  chair  by  his  mother's 
side,  and  took  one  of  her  thin  hands  in  his.  He  thought 
she  looked  older  and  more  fragile  than  when  he  had  seen 
her  last,  and  that  she  seemed  unhappy.  "By  and  by  I 
will  come  and  stay  with  you  for  a  long  visit,"  he  said, 
"and  I  will  bring  someone  with  me  to  see  you.  I  have 
great  news  for  you,  mother.  Guess  what  it  is!"  The 
corners  of  Lady  Stokes's  mouth  became  drawn  with 
anxiety  when  she  noticed  Vernon's  expression  of 
radiant  satisfaction.  She  could  not  bring  herself  to 
guess. 

"Margot  Cartier  has  promised  to  marry  me,"  he  went 
on  hurriedly.  "We  are  going  to  be  married  very  quietly, 
almost  at  once.  I  am  arranging  to  send  in  my 
papers.  ..." 

"Vernon!"  Lady  Stokes  started  in  her  chair  and 
looked  at  her  son  in  frank  horror.  "My  dear  boy  ...  I 
had  no  idea.  .  .  .  Have  you  really  gone  so  far  as  that  ? 
Could  you  not  have  thought  it  over  for  a  little  while 
longer,  and  consulted  your  father  and  me  about  it?  He 
will  be  terribly  disappointed.  You  don't  understand, 
Vernon,  how  all  your  father's  hopes  and  ambitions  are 
bound  up  in  you.  ..." 

"But,  mother,  you  liked  Margot,  didn't  you?  I  am 

190 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  191 

sure  you  will  come  to  appreciate  her  when  you  know 
her  better.  ...  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  just  about 
the  luckiest  man  living!" 

"Liking  a  girl  and  thinking  her  the  right  wife  for  one's 
son  are  not  quite  the  same  thing,  my  dear.  I  shall  like 
her  for  your  sake,  if  she  makes  you  a  good  wife.  But 
you  must  remember  that  women  see  other  women  with- 
out the  glamour  of  sex  to  blind  their  eyes.  And  that 
makes  such  a  difference.  ..." 

"Well,"  sai(I  Vernon,  rather  disappointed  at  his 
mother's  attitude,  "I  can  tell  you,  I  had  a  hard  enough 
job  to  get  her  to  take  me  on!" 

Lady  Stokes  smiled  brilliantly  at  her  son  as  he  made 
this  naive  admission.  They  were  sitting  in  the  loggia — 
the  one  redeeming  feature  of  a  pretentious  mid- Victorian 
house — looking  down  over  the  broad,  wooded  park-lands 
surrounding  the  hill  on  which  Highmere  was  built.  Soon 
Sir  William  would  return  from  his  morning  ride  of  in- 
spection, and  they  would  be  interrupted.  Lady  Stokes 
dreaded  this  as  much  as  Vernon,  for  she  loved  her  son 
more  dearly  than  her  husband. 

"That  must  have  been  a  change  for  you,  Vernon,"  she 
said,  with  a  little  hint  of  malice. 

"By  Jove,  yes !  Whatever  she  is,  she  isn't  mercenary." 
Vernon  did  not  see  his  mother  smile  again,  more  sadly 
this  time,  and  plunged  into  a  boyish  description  of  Mar- 
got's  virtues  and  desirable  qualities. 

"All  I  want  is  for  you  to  be  happy,  Vernon/'  Lady 
Stokes  said  at  last,  "and  to  make  your  wife  happy.  I'm 
growing  an  old  woman,  dear,  and  the  older  I  grow  the 
more  presumptuous  it  seems  to  me  to  interfere  in  other 
people's  destinies.  You  are  a  man  now,  and  you  have 
had  more  experience  of  the  world  than  most  men  of 
your  age.  It  would  be  absurd  and  wrong  to  try  to 


192  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

influence  you.  All  the  same,  I  must  say  that  my  own 
experience  has  been  that  the  happiest  marriages  are 
those  which  result  in  the  union  of  two  families  of  equal 
standing,  who  have  known  one  another  for  a  long  time. 
.  .  .  But  I  have  come  across  many  exceptions.  One 
can't  generalise.  Whatever  you  do,  you  know  I  shall 

back  you  up.  But  promise  me  this  one  thing "  Lady 

Stokes  looked  with  the  eagerness  of  affection  at  her  son, 
who  was  surprised  to  see  his  usually  impassive  mother 
display  so  much  emotion.  "Promise  me  this,"  she  said, 
"that  whatever  your  father  says  to  you  to-day  you  will 
hear  him  out  and  keep  your  temper.  Humour  him  as 
much  as  possible,  Vernon.  He  is  getting  on  in  years 
now,  and  is  not  nearly  so  strong  as  he  looks.  His  heart 
has  begun  to  be  affected.  And  you  are  one  of  the  few 
remaining  interests  in  his  life.  ..." 

"But  what  is  it  he  has  to  say  to  me?"  Vernon  asked, 
with  renewed  curiosity,  and  with  a  certain  apprehension 
that  made  him  feel  queer  inside.  Mother  and  son  caught 
sight  simultaneously  of  an  erect  figure  on  horseback 
cantering  up  the  drive  towards  the  house,  and  -the  ques- 
tion was  left  unanswered.  .  .  . 

Sir  William  on  horseback,  at  a  garden-party,  at  dinner, 
at  the  opera,  in  the  Park  (and  even  in  his  bath),  was  a 
fine  figure  of  a  man.  His  thin,  erect  body,  exquisitely- 
manipulated  grey  moustache,  and  almost  too  spotless  and 
appropriate  clothes,  combined  to  make  a  picture  of  per- 
fect form — a  picture  hard  in  outline  perhaps,  a  little  too 
brightly  coloured  and  highly  varnished,  but  still  effect- 
ive: the  "portrait  of  a  gentleman,"  as  exhibited  every 
summer  at  Burlington  House.  His  salute  to  his  wife 
and  son  before  he  got  off  his  glossy  chestnut — surrender- 
ing the  animal  with  a  "careless  gesture"  to  the  groom — 
was  gravely  dignified.  He  advanced  slowly  towards 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  193 

them,  shook  hands  with  Vernon,  and  settled  himself  in 
an  armchair,  talking  of  matters  connected  with  the  estate, 
the  morrow's  shooting  parties,  his  own  and  neighbouring 
coverts. 

Vernon  had  never  cared  for  Highmere.  His  grand- 
father's taste  in  architecture,  although  the  best  that 
money  could  buy  in  1860,  caused  him  acute  discomfort, 
and  he  had  long  decided  that  he  would  sell  the  place  when 
he  inherited  it  and  buy  another.  There  was  a  lovely 
Queen  Anne  house  in  Somerset,  in  a  hollow  of  the  Quan- 
tocks,  which  had  belonged  for  many  generations  to  the 
Cornewalls  but  had  been  sold  by  General  Cornewall 
within  the  past  ten  years.  Vernon  had  long  had  the 
idea  of  buying  back  Hotham  Place  as  soon  as  it  came 
into  the  market.  He  would  speak  to  his  father  about 
it.  If  only  the  owners  would  sell  now,  how  delightful 
it  would  be  to  set  up  house  there  with  Margot!  He 
had  always  loved  the  Quantocks.  The  old  port  of  Bridge- 
water,  with  its  houses  of  warm  red  brick  and  its  mem- 
ories of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  would  be  the  nearest 
town.  .  .  . 

He  listened  with  only  a  semblance  of  attention  to 
his  father's  talk  about  Highmere — talk  which  was  meant 
entirely  for  his  benefit.  Already  he  saw  the  place  in 
the  hands  of  the  estate  agents,  and  wondered  what  it 
would  fetch ;  whether,  in  view  of  the  hideousness  of  the 
house,  anyone  could  be  got  to  bid  for  it  at  all.  His  imag- 
ination was  luxuriating  on  Hotham  during  all  the  time 
that  Sir  William  was  enlarging  on  his  difficulties  with  the 
tenants  of  Merlings,  a  large  farm  at  the  western  ex- 
tremity of  his  estate.  -Merlings  had  always  been  a 
trouble:  it  was  unlucky.  Even  the  most  skilful  farmers 
never  really  made  it  pay,  and  yet.  .  .  . 

Vernon  heard  his  father's  monotonous  voice  going  on 


194  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

and  on  about  it,  describing  the  nature  of  the  soil,  the 
natural  advantages  of  the  position;  the  fact,  in  short, 
that  it  ought  to  be  made  to  pay.  Sir  William  added,  in 
conclusion,  that  he  had  half  a  mind  to  take  it  over  and 
farm  it  himself. 

During  the  afternoon  Vernon  accompanied  his  father 
round  the  estate.  There  were  coverts  to  be  inspected, 
gamekeepers  to  be  interviewed,  the  progress  of  new  farm 
buildings  and  improvements  to  be  examined  and  com- 
mented on.  Vernon  was  aware  of  a  certain  nervous 
tension  in  their  relations.  Both  were  acutely  conscious 
of  the  fact  that  an  important,  and  perhaps  painful,  dis- 
cussion lay  ahead  of  them.  The  thought  of  it  seemed 
already  to  raise  up  an  impalpable  barrier  of  hostility. 
Vernon  thought  he  gained  a  hint  of  what  was  going  on  in 
his  father's  mind  by  his  occasional  references  to  his  "set- 
tling down"  and  such  phrases  as  "when  you  come  into  the 
estate/'  Evidently  his  father  was  thinking  of  his  own 
death,  his  son's  marriage,  of  the  serious  things  of  life. 
Vernon  had  a  great  distaste  for  "heart  to  heart"  conver- 
sations ;  they  embarrassed  him,  and  his  professional  pre- 
judices made  it  seem  bad  form  to  talk  about  death  except 
flippantly.  And  all  the  time  he  kept  nervously  wondering 
how  his  father  would  take  his  announcement  of  his  in- 
tended marriage  and  of  his  decision  to  send  in  his  papers. 
The  property  which  he  had  inherited  from  an  uncle  only 
brought  him  in  ^62,500  a  year.  The  rest  of  his  income 
was  allowed  him  by  Sir.  William.  .  .  .  Unpleasant  pos- 
sibilities presented  themselves,  but  the  thought  that  he 
must  do  his  best,  for  Margot's  sake,  to  keep  his  end  up 
nerved  him  for  the  coming  ordeal.  He  knew  his  father 
was  anxious  for  him  to  make  an  imposing  marriage ;  and 
as  he  contemplated  Sir  William's  straight  shoulders, 
perfectly-cut  coat,  and  implacable  grey  moustache,  he 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  195 

wondered  how  he  would  take  his  disappointment. 
Suaviter  in  fnodo,  of  course ;  the  old  man  would  always 
be  that.  .  .  . 

The  afternoon  wore  at  last  to  an  end.  Some  neigh- 
bours came  to  call  at  tea-time  of  whom  Vernon  strongly 
disapproved.  He  showed  his  sense  of  superiority  by  be- 
ing subtly  rude  to  them,  greatly  to  his  mother's  irrita- 
tion. He  had  always  been  just  like  that,  ever  since  he 
left  Sandhurst,  she  reflected,  sadly.  Would  his  thick 
armour  of  vanity  never  crack?  Or  would  this  Canadian 
girl  who  had  succeeded  in  making  a  fool  of  him,  succeed 
further  by  boring  holes  in  it?  The  thought  that  she 
might  do  so  almost  reconciled  Lady  Stokes  to  the 
marriage. 

Vernon  did  not  enjoy  his  dinner  that  night.  He  and 
his  mother  talked  about  Aunt  Georgy's  house  and  house- 
hold, and  the  thought  of  Aunt  Georgy  inevitably  called 
up  a  vision  of  Margot.  He  was  conscious  of  keeping 
her  name  purposely  out  of  the  conversation,  conscious 
that  his  mother  would  notice  this  and  draw  deductions. 
Yet  why  on  earth  should  he  be  ashamed  of  Margot? 
Ought  he  not  to  have  made  the  announcement  to  his 
father  at  once,  this  morning?  Would  not  his  father  con- 
clude from  the  postponement  that  he  had  a  feeling  of 
guilt  about  what  he  had  done?  Was  not  his  silence 
almost  an  admission  on  his  part  that  his  marriage  was 
open  to  criticism  ?  .  .  . 

It  was  a  great  relief  when  his  mother  rose  from  the 
table  and  his  father  asked  him  to  come  into  the  library 
to  smoke  a  cigar.  The  moment  had  come  at  last:  how 
were  things  going  to  pan  out? 

"I  expect  you  are  wondering  why  I  wired  for  you  to 
come  here  ..."  Sir  William  began. 

"Well,  I  hoped  it  wasn't  anything  to  do  with  your 
health,  sir,"  replied  Vernon. 


196  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

"Oh,  no;  I'm  good,  I  hope,  for  some  years  yet, 
though  my  heart  has  lately  been  giving  me  some  trouble. 
It  was  really  about  yourself,  my  dear  boy;  and  what  I 
have  to  tell  you  is  a  difficult  thing  to  have  to  say.  .  .  . 
You  know,  Vernon,  a  man's  idea  of  a  woman,  while  he 
is  making  love  to  her,  and  his  idea  of  the  same  woman 
after  he  has  lived  with  her  for  three  months,  is  always 
a  very  different  thing.  He  may  like  her  just  as  well; 
but  he  sees  her  more  clearly,  and  his  eyes  begin  to 
notice  subtleties — subtleties  of  behaviour,  manners,  point 
of  view.  It  may  be  a  trite  saying,  but  marriage  is  a 
very  serious  undertaking.  It  a  man  ever  needs  to  look 
before  he  leaps,  he  does  so  when  he  contemplates  getting 
married.  Some  marriages  are  made  in  Heaven,  of 
course ;  but,  believe  me,  about  all  the  others  one  ought,  as 
it  were,  to  consult  one's  solicitor.  There  is  no  perman- 
ence in  passion  for  the  average  man,  Vernon ;  and  affec- 
tion which  lasts,  and  which  alone  makes  marriage  a  suc- 
cess, nearly  always  springs  from  similarity  of  point  of 
view,  upbringing,  and  so  on.  ..." 

Sir  William  looked  at  the  end  of  his  cigar,  as  though 
seeking  inspiration.  Vernon's  colour  had  risen,  but  he 
said  nothing.  He  was  not  going  to  help  his  father  out. 
"I  hope  you  won't  do  anything  rash,  Vernon.  You  must 
understand  without  my  telling  you,  that  the  position  you 
will  inherit  on  my  death  is  one  which  many  young  women 
would  be  only  too  glad  to  share  with  you.  That  will  make 
it  all  the  more  difficult  for  you  to  find  disinterested  affec- 
tion, unless  you  look  for  it  among  girls  whose  fortune  or 
position  is  at  least  equal  to  your  own.  And  then  there  is 
this  point:  the  position  of  your  wife  is  not  one  which 
every  girl  you  meet  will  be  capable  of  filling  with  credit 
to  herself  and  to  you.  When  you  are  thinking  seriously 
of  marrying,  don't  forget  your  own  mother,  whom  your 
wife  will  have  to  succeed." 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  197 

"Well,  I  am  thinking  seriously  of  marrying,"  Vernon 
blurted  out.  "To  tell  you  the  truth,  father,  I  was  very 
glad  to  get  your  telegram  and  to  have  this  chance  of  a 
talk.  I've  just  got  engaged  to  Margot  Cartier.  I  am 
sending  in  my  papers.  We  hope  to  be  married  almost 
at  once.  I  feel  sure  you'll  like  her  tremendously,  father, 
when  you  get  to  know  her.  ..." 

"Good  God!  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  .  .  ."  Sir 
William  broke  in.  His  jaw  set  rigidly,  and  only  the  hard 
light  in  his  grey  eyes  betrayed  the  intensity  of  his  anger 
and  disappointment.  "So  you  are  engaged,"  he  rapped 
out,  eventually. 

"Yes." 

"My  father  would  have  withheld  his  permission  to 
such  folly  and  made  his  son  suffer  for  his  stupidity.  But 
I  can't  do  that;  I  can  only  warn  you,  Vernon,  of  what 
you  are  doing.  I  was  certain  that  you  were  making  a  fool 
of  yourself!  Well,  I  have  found  out  all  about  this  girl 
with  whom  you  are  entangled;  I  don't  suppose  for  a 
moment  that  you  know  anything  about  her  yourself,  ex- 
cept what  she  chooses  to  fill  you  up  with.  It  may  inter- 
est you  to  hear  that  she  is  some  Montreal  tradesman's 
brat — a  penniless  adventuress  who  was  picked  up  on 
board  ship.  ..." 

Vernon  jumped  up  from  his  chair  and  threw  away  his 
cigar.  His  face  was  a  deep  red  with  rage  and  disgust. 
He  was  ashamed  of  his  father. 

"Margot  and  I  are  definitely  engaged  to  be  married. 
As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  my  decision  is  irrevocable.  To 
talk  scandal  about  your  future  daughter-in-law  doesn't 
therefore  appear  to  me  to  be  in  the  best  of  taste.  ..." 

The  veins  in  Sir  William's  forehead  swelled  and  his 
lips  under  his  moustache  compressed  themselves  into 
thin,  bluish  lines. 


198  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

"Sit  down,  Vernon,"  he  said  at  last,  "and  listen  to 
me.  You  are  too  old  for  this  kind  of  nonsense.  It  is  my 
plain  duty  not  to  let  you  commit  this  act  of  folly  with 
your  eyes  shut.  After  all,  your  marriage  is  a  matter 
which  vitally  concerns  your  whole  family.  You  have  no 
right  to  introduce  into  your  family  a  creature  of  whom 
you  could  not  possibly  expect  your  mother  to  approve. 
Not  only  is  this  girl  sprung  from  the  gutter,  but  her 
reputation  is  already  besmirched.  .  .  ." 

"If  that  is  all  ..."  said  Vernon,  with  icy  calm. 

"It  is  not  all.  Her  name  has  been  mentioned  to  me 
in  connection  with  Sir  Carl  Frensen ;  you  know  what  that 
means." 

"If  you  will  tell  me  who  it  is  who  has  mentioned  it  in 
that  connection,"  Vernon  broke  in,  "I  shall  have  much 
pleasure  in  thrashing  him  within  the  next  twenty- four 
hours.  Good  God!  Carl  Frensen!  Why,  he  is  sixty  if 
he's  a  day!" 

Sir  William  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It  was  my  duty 
to  tell  you.  Your  remark  about  Frensen's  age  does  more 
credit  to  your  innocence  than  to  your  intelligence.  That 
is  all  I  can  say.  You  will  be  an  incredible  fool  if,  after 
what  I  have  told  you,  you  don't  get  out  of  the  entangle- 
ment as  quickly  as  you  can.  I'll  find  the  money  for 
you.  Of  course,  she  will  have  to  be  bought  off.  ..." 

When  Sir  William  looked  at  his  son  he  was  shocked 
to  find  Vernon's  face  blazing  with  anger.  Tears  of  rage 
poured  from  his  eyes. 

"What  utter  filth!"  he  gasped.  "You  listen  to  the 
lying  garbage  disseminated  by  a  lascivious  old  Jew,  who 
tried  to  seduce  his  guest  under  the  cloak  of  hospitality, 
and  then  repeat  it  to  me  as  if  it  were  the  truth !  Thanks. 
I  prefer  to  remain  an  'incredible  fool.'  Carl  Frensen, 
indeed!  It  makes  one  sick.  ..." 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  199 

"You  are  doomed  to  find  a  great  many  things  in  life, 
Vernon,  which  will  make  you  very  sick  indeed,"  retorted 
his  father,  whose  temper,  like  his  son's,  was  beginning 
to  get  out  of  hand.  The  effort  he  made  to  control  him- 
self was  painful  to  watch;  his  cloak  of  diplomacy  was 
swiftly  beginning  to  slip  away  from  him.  As  his  parent 
began  to  lose  his  self-control,  Vernon  found  himself 
growing  calm  again,  and  he  recovered  his  nerve  as  sud- 
denly as  he  had  lost  it. 

He  began  to  finger  his  moustache,  and  paced  slowly 
up  and  down  the  hearth-rug. 

"I  really  think  I  had  a  right  to  expect  that  you  would 
keep  this  filth  to  yourself — at  least  after  I  told  you  of  our 
engagement." 

Sir  William's  face  twitched  convulsively. 

"Vernon,  you  must  be  mad  or  intoxicated.  How  dare 
you  insult  me  like  this  ?  .  .  .  What  I  have  told  you  was 
for  your  own  good.  It  was  my  duty  to  tell  you.  Beware 
how  you  carry  things  too  far  with  me.  Beware,  I  tell 
you.  .'.."" 

The  old  man  pulled  himself  out  of  his  armchair  and 
stood  up  in  front  of  his  son,  glaring  at  him.  Once  again 
all  the  nerves  in  his  face  twitched  horribly.  Vernon 
returned  his  father's  glance  with  interest,  and  raised 
supercilious  eyebrows. 

"I  can't  see  any  object  in  continuing  this  discussion," 
he  said  in  a  contemptuous  voice. 

"Oh,  you  can't?"  Sir  William  snapped.  "Very  well. 
Let  me  tell  you  this.  It  you  marry  this  gutter  girl, 
Frensen's  cast-off  mistress,  you  shall  never  have  High- 
mere  or  anything  else  of  mine  if  I  can  prevent  it.  ... 
So  you  know  now.  Perhaps  in  future  you  will  reserve 
your  supercilious  airs  for  those  who  will  tolerate 
them. 


200  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

Vernon  looked  at  his  father,  whose  face  was  trans- 
formed by  fury,  and  gasped.  Then,  fearful  lest  he  should 
do  something  foolish  and  irrevocable,  he  turned  quickly 
on  his  heel  and  left  the  room.  He  fancied  he  heard  a 
curious,  heavy  thud  as  he  stood  in  the  hall,  but  he  paid 
no  attention  to  it,  and  hurrying  upstairs  knocked  at  the 
door  of  his  mother's  room. 

"Vernon,  dear,  what  has  happened?"  Lady  Stokes 
asked,  when  she  saw  her  son's  haggard  face.  Her  eyes 
were  nervous  and  reproachful.  "I  hope  you  remembered 
what  I  told  you  this  morning.  He  is  an  old  man,  Vernon. 
His  heart  ..." 

"He  said  the  most  fearful  things  about  Margot. 
Horrible  lies  .  .  .  and  he  went  on  with  them  long  after 
I  told  him  we  were  engaged  ...  I  couldn't  stand 
it." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"Came  away.  As  I  left  he  told  me  he  would  cut  me 
off  with  the  proverbial  shilling  if  I  married  Margot. 
.  .  .  Quite  in  the  approved  style!" 

"Vernon,  why  couldn't  you  have  humoured  him,  as  I 
asked  you  ?" 

"If  you  had  heard  what  he  said !" 

"I  must  go  down  to  him,  Vernon."  Lady  Stokes 
put  aside  her  work-box  and  went  to  the  door.  "I  am 
very  uneasy."  Her  nervousness  communicated  itself  to 
her  son,  and  he  reproached  himself  for  not  having  en- 
dured the  interview  in  silence.  After  all,  his  father  was 
privileged.  But  he  could  not  go  down  with  his  mother 
and  apologise  now.  It  would  look  as  though  he  were 
trying  to  repair  the  breach  from  mercenary  motives.  And 
his  pride  could  not  tolerate  that  imputation.  His  mother 
was  hurrying  downstairs  to  the  library,  and  he  stopped 
for  a  few  minutes  looking  over  into  the  hall  from  the 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  201 

first-floor  landing.  In  those  moments  an  uncanny  sensa- 
tion of  dread  came  over  him.  .  .  .  Then  suddenly  the 
bell  of  the  library  rang  violently,  again  and  again.  He 
could  hear  its  incessant  clamour  far  away  in  the  servants' 
quarters.  Something  serious  must  have  happened.  He 
ran  hastily  downstairs.  By  the  time  he  had  reached  the 
hall,  the  butler  had  also  appeared,  and  was  already  open- 
ing the  door  of  the  library.  Over  the  old  servants' 
shoulder  Vernon  saw  his  father  stretched  out  on  the 
floor,  his  mother  bending  over  him. 

"Telephone  to  Dr.  Burkitt,  Andrews,"  Lady  Stokes 
said  in  a  perfectly  calm  voice.  "Sir  William  has  had  a 
seizure.  ..."  Vernon  had  never  admired  his  mother 
more  than  he  did  at  that  moment,  but  a  glance  she  gave 
him  from  her  clear  grey  eyes  seemed  to  freeze  his  blood. 
Other  servants  began  now  to  arrive.  The  maids  peered 
into  the  doorway  timidly.  Then  the  housekeeper  came, 
brushed  them  aside,  and  went  into  the  room,  kneeling 
down  by  the  sick  man  and  whispering  officiously  to  Lady 
Stokes.  In  the  horror  of  the  moment,  Vernon  detested 
himself  for  noticing  such  trifles  as  the  housekeeper's  airs 
of  self-importance  and  her  paralysing  efficiency.  He 
wondered  how  the  maids  put  up  with  it.  With  the  help 
of  Miss  Austerley,  Sir  William  groaning  weakly,  was 
lifted  on  to  a  sofa  and  an  effort  was  made  to  give  him 
some  brandy.  Half  an  hour  at  least  must  elapse  before 
the  doctor  could  motor  over  from  Guildford.  During  the 
long  time  of  waiting,  Vernon  noticed  that  his  mother 
ignored  him.  She  kept  her  eyes  continuously  on  her 
husband.  To  Vernon's  disgust,  he  found  that  every  now 
and  then  his  thoughts  would  wander.  He  sat  down  in 
the  revolving  chair  by  his  father's  writing-table,  resting 
his  dejected  head  in  his  hands.  For  some  moments  he 
sat  in  the  silent  room  with  his  eyes  closed.  When  he 


202  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

opened  them  he  found  himself,  half -unconsciously,  read- 
ing a  letter  which  lay  open  on  the  blotting-pad  in  front 
of  him.  He  had  not  noticed  it  before.  "Dear  Sir 
William  Stokes,"  it  began,  "I  trust  you  will  pardon  this 
communication  from  a  comparative  stranger,  but  in  view 
of  your  son's  intimacy  with  a  Miss  Carter  (to  whom  he 
was  unfortunately  introduced  by  my  wife)  I  feel  it  is 
no  less  than  my  duty  to  bring  certain  facts  to  your 
notice.  .  .  ."  So  this  was  what  had  caused  all  the 
trouble,  this  tissue  of  malicious  inventions,  wrapped  up 
in  pompous,  hypocritical  language!  Vernon  read  the 
letter  through,  and  then  glanced  guiltily  round  the 
room.  But  his  mother  and  Miss  Austerley  were  still 
bending  over  the  sofa  where  his  father  lay  moaning,  and 
seemed  almost  unaware  of  his  presence.  He  put  the 
letter  back  into  its  envelope  and  gripped  it  between 
his  two  hands  in  order  to  tear  it  into  a  hundred  pieces. 
It  was  an  hour  before  the  doctor  arrived — the  longest 
hour  that  Vernon  could  remember  in  the  whole  of  his 
life.  The  stricken  may  lay  groaning  on  the  sofa,  with 
grey  face  and  eyes  that  rolled  from  side  to  side,  unsee- 
ing. Vernon  was  relieved  when  the  doctor  dismissed 
him  from  the  room ;  the  strain  was  getting  on  his  nerves, 
and  it  was  obvious  that  there  was  nothing  he  could  do. 
He  went  upstairs  to  his  bedroom  and  sat  down  in  his 
armchair.  He  did  not  dare  to  go  to  bed.  Something  in 
the  doctor's  voice  had  warned  him  that  the  end  might 
come  suddenly.  He  opened  a  novel,  trying  to  concen- 
trate himself  on  the  story,  but  he  found  it  impossible  to 
do  so.  When  Miss  Austerley  knocked  at  his  door  shortly 
after  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  to  tell  him  that  his 
father  had  died  without  recovering  consciousness,  she 
found  that  he  had  fallen  asleep  with  the  book  on  his 
knees. 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

PART  III 


CHAPTER  XIX 

"How  do  you  do,  my  dear?"  said  the  Duchess  (her- 
self the  daughter  of  a  seventh  duke),  as  she  advanced 
with  a  smile  across  Margot's  drawing-room.  They  had 
dined  with  one  another,  Margot  and  Vernon  had  spent 
two  week-ends  at  Stretton,  and  they  had  been  to  the 
Opera  in  her  box  to  hear  Melba  and  Caruso  in  "Boheme" 
— a  "big"  night.  As  Margot  poured  out  tea  for  her  guest 
she  felt  their  conversation — after  that  intimate  greeting 
and  all  that  it  implied  to  the  other  people  in  the  room, 
as  well  as  "below-stairs" — would  be  in  the  nature  of  an 
anti-climax.  She  wished  now  that  the  duchess  would 
get  up  again,  say  "Good-bye,  my  dear!  till  Tuesday," 
very  prettily,  and  walk  out.  The  bazaar  that  was  to  be 
held  on  Tuesday  at  the  Duchess's  Berkeley  Square  house 
hung  over  Margot  like  a  nightmare ;  at  the  thought  of  it 
waves  of  ennui  broke  over  her  like  asphyxiating  gases. 
And  for  at  least  half  an  hour  she  must  appear  interested, 
enthusiastic!  She  felt  inclined  to  drop  her  egg-shell 
china  teacup  and  say,  "Blast  your  bazaar !"  The  thought 
of  sharing  a  stall  with  a  much-advertised  marchioness  no 
longer  excited  her.  She  had  become  intimate  with  sev- 
eral marchionesses  last  summer;  marchionesses  had  lost 
their  freshness!  There  wasn't  one  of  her  new  friends 
whom  she  would  really  have  exchanged  for  Rachel,  and 
as  the  heady  excitement  of  going  to  their  great  houses 
wore  off,  they  began  increasingly  to  bore  her.  For  the 
hugeness  of  her  own  house  she  was  beginning  to  have  the 
contempt  bred  of  familiarity.  How  she  hated  her  vast 
bedroom  with  its  enormous,  pompous  bed!  She  had 

205 


206  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

tried  doing  away  with  it  and  substituting  a  smaller  bed, 
but  the  dainty  piece  of  modern  French  furniture  had 
looked  ridiculous  in  the  great  room.  It  hadn't  seemed 
worth  while  offending  Vernon  over  so  small  a  matter. 
The  bed  in  which  he  had  first  seen  the  light  was  sacred 
in  his  eyes,  so  it  had  been  restored,  with  its  tacit  re- 
proach against  her  for  not  having  achieved  what  the 
family  expected. 

Vernon  had  gone  down  to  Hotham  for  two  nights  to 
interview  an  architect  about  a  garage  which  he  was  hav- 
ing built.  He  hardly  ever  went  away  without  her,  and 
the  sensation  of  having  her  house  to  herself  was  as  de- 
lightful as  it  was  rare.  She  hated  having  to  waste  a 
single  moment  over  her  callers,  and  longed  for  six  o'clock 
to  come,  when  she  would  be  free  from  them.  The  only 
people  in  the  room  for  whom  she  cared  in  the  least  were 
Jack  and  Vivie  Nugent,  and  she  could  see  that  they  were 
preparing  to  fly.  Vivie,  she  knew,  "could  stand  anything 
but  charity."  The  Nugents  lived  in  a  tiny  house  in  John 
vStreet — all  new  paint  and  art  curtains  and  with  the 
dinkiest  door-knocker — and  everyone  wondered  how  they 
managed.  They  were  a  fluffy  couple  of  chatterers  who 
went  everywhere,  and  made  a  regular  business  of  dining 
out.  Vivie's  infectious  laugh  could  be  heard  livening  the 
most  pompous  dinner-parties,  and  all  her  enemies  praised 
her  for  being  "an  extremely  clever  woman."  In  any 
case,  bridge  and  the  skilful  letting  of  furnished  flats  for 
the  season  were  certainly  their  only  visible  means  of 
subsistence.  Margot  liked  Vivie  Nugent — she  was  the 
cnly  woman  in  Vernon's  set  whom  she  could  tolerate — 
but  she  was  rather  nervous  of  her  sharp  eyes  and  ready 
wit.  You  could  never  be  quite  sure  what  Vivie  might 
not  do  if  she  were  really  in  a  hobble!  Vivie,  however, 
could  be  relied  on  to  be  amusing,  and  what  she  did  not 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  207 

know  about  the  particular  world  to  which  Margot  was  a 
newcomer  was  hardly  worth  knowing.  She  had  reduced 
social  intercourse  to  a  science,  and  Margot  had  many 
times  been  thankful  for  her  advice. 

While  the  Duchess  went  on  about  the  bazaar  and  Vivie 
grew  restive,  Margot  was  thinking  about  Rachel  Elking- 
ton.  Rachel,  whom  she  had  not  seen  since  a  month  or 
two  before  Mrs.  Elkington's  death,  which  had  taken  place 
soon  after  the  new  year,  was  coming  to  dine  with  her 
that  night,  and  they  would  be  able  to  have  a  long  evening 
together,  talking  over  old  times.  How  jolly  that  would 
be!  Rachel  had  been  travelling  about  ever  since  her 
mother's  death,  which  had  been  a  great  shock  to  her,  and 
had  only  recently  returned  to  Hyde  Park  Street. 

"Well,  I  do  hope  it  will  be  a  tremendous  success,"  she 
heard  herself  saying.  What  was  it  that  was  to  be  the 
success  ?  The  bazaar,  of  course !  That  miserable  bazaar. 

"My  own  view  is  that  unless  the  committee  adopts  an 
entirely  different  tone  towards  the  stall-holders,  the  only 
way  to  bring  it  to  its  senses  will  be  for  us  to  resign  in 
a  body,"  the  Duchess  went  on.  "I  shall  withdraw  my 
consent  to  everything.  Do  you  know  what  they  actually 
had  the  cheek  to  say  to  Millicent  Bradstock  yesterday? 
.  .  .  Wasn't  it  too  bad?" 

All  the  ladies  (except  Vivie,  who  seized  this  moment 
to  make  her  adieux,  and  was  quite  charming  to  the 
Duchess  when  she  did  so)  seemed  to  chirp  up  at  the 
mention  of  the  committee's  shortcomings.  It  reminded 
Margot,  as  she  sat  watching  them  behind  her  beautiful 
tea-table,  laden  with  rare  china  and  Queen  Anne  silver, 
of  the  back  kitchen  at  Price  Street  when  one  of  her 
father's  cronies  had  begun  to  tell  a  bawdy  story.  The 
men,  from  a  lethargic  puffing  of  their  clays,  had  all 
shifted  in  their  chairs,  opened  their  eyes,  and  shown  signs 


208  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

of  life,  when  one  of  them,  amid  coughings  and  circum- 
locutions, began  on  the  all-absorbing  topic.  In  her  heart 
of  hearts  Margot  felt  it  was  more  sensible  to  be  galvan- 
ised into  interest  by  bawdiness  than  by  "committees,"  but 
she  concluded  that  if  duchesses  were  to  be  known  certain 
sacrifices  were  only  to  be  expected.  Mrs.  Harwich,  who 
knew  all  the  Royal  family  personally,  had  begun  to  heave 
when  the  committee  had  been  mentioned.  Her  distress 
was  as  patent  as  that  of  a  volcano  before  it  achieves  its 
eruption.  She  had  an  anecdote,  direct  from  the  most 
august  circles.  The  obiter  dicta  of  a  princess  swelled 
and  struggled  in  her  bosom.  "Princess  Augusta  of  Hoch- 
berg-Leitstein,"  she  achieved  eventually,  "told  me  only 
yesterday  that  the  way  the  committee  went  on  was  a 
perfect  scandal.  If  it  were  not  for  the  sake  of  the  cause, 
she  assured  me  she  would  have  withdrawn  her  patronage 
ages  ago." 

"Not  that  the  old  cat's  patronage  is  worth  such  a  lot, 
when  all's  said,"  Lady  Cynthia  Deene  interposed  briskly. 
"All  the  same,  it  only  shows.  ..."  She  went  on  reso- 
lutely explaining  what  it  showed,  and  Margot  fell  to 
wondering  how  such  ruthless  energy  had  come  to 
devote  itself  to  the  cause  of  fashionable  bazaars.  Mrs. 
Harwich  was  different;  she  was  the  widow  of  a  court 
clergyman,  and  made  a  business  of  that  sort  of 
thing.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Harwich  got  up  to  go  as  one  who  regrets  that 
she  cannot  remain  to  hear  charitable  princesses  called 
"old  cats,"  and  the  amusement  of  watching  her  take 
leave  of  Lady  Cynthia  almost  reconciled  Margot  to  her 
spoiled  afternoon.  To  make  matters  worse,  she  remem- 
bered that  she  might  have  been  at  Ranelagh  all  this  time. 
Carl  Frensen  had  wanted  her  to  go  with  him,  and  she 
had  forgotten  all  about  it.  The  bazaar,  however,  was 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  209 

very  important.  She  was  to  be  presented  to  the  "old 
cat,"  and  a  vista  of  semi-royal  entertainments  floated  be- 
fore her  mind.  Somehow,  the  almost  certain  presence  of 
Mrs.  Harwich  at  every  one  of  them  seened  to  spoil  the 
view.  What,  after  all,  was  the  good  of  it?  She  would 
probably  only  be  bored,  and  she  was  tired  of  meeting 
new  people.  She  longed  for  the  sultry  excitements  of 
the  lower  social  altitudes.  The  higher  she  climbed  the 
more  rarefied  grew  the  air.  In  an  atmosphere  redolent 
of  "social  service,"  where  everyone,  men  and  women, 
were  painfully  conscious  of  their  duties  to  the  State  and 
to  the  "lower  orders,"  she  breathed  with  difficulty,  and 
it  occurred  to  her  sometimes  that  it  might  almost  be  more 
fun  really  to  belong  to  the  "lower  orders"  and  just  be 
"worked  amongst."  It  would  save  so  much  trouble. 
But  better  still  it  would  be  to  be  like  Rachel.  The  more 
she  thought  of  Rachel  the  more  she  envied  her.  Rachel 
never  got  tired  of  the  things  she  was  interested  in;  and 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  wasn't  married,  how  much 
she  seemed  to  get  out  of  life!  She  never  did  anything 
that  didn't  amuse  her.  It  was  impossible  to  imagine  her 
spending  a  dull  afternoon  at  a  charity  bazaar.  .  .  . 
Margot  wondered  if  she  could  get  out  of  it  all  at  the 
eleventh  hour  by  taking  a  strong  line  about  the  com- 
mittee. But  no,  there  was  no  chance  of  it.  All  com- 
mittees were  always  abused  just  in  the  same  way;  it 
never  made  any  difference  whatever  to  the  holding  of  the 
bazaars.  "The  poor  debs  simply  have  to  do  something 
else,  besides  squashing  themselves  against  young  men's 
shirt-fronts,  in  paroxysms  of  negroid  dancing!"  Lady 
Cynthia  observed. 

The  silent  but  irreproachable  soldier  who  always  seem- 
ed to  be  there — either  this  one  or  another  just  like  him 
— emitted  certain  sounds  of  carefully  modulated  laughter. 


2io  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

"By  Jove,  that  just  about  describes  them!"  he  re- 
marked, joining  in  the  conversation  for  the  first  time  for 
some  minutes.  Margot  knew  quite  well  that  he  would 
wait  until  the  Duchess  and  Lady  Cynthia  had  rattled  off. 
Then  he  would  get  up  and  stand  over  her  and  say  good- 
bye— standing  sufficiently  near  to  enable  her  to  smell  the 
scent  on  his  curled,  blonde  moustache.  He  had  hard  blue 
eyes,  his  morning  coat  was  cut  in  well  at  the  waist  (he 
went  to  the  same  tailor  as  Vernon)  and  his  check 
trousers  were  perfectly  creased.  Considerable  attention 
had  been  given  to  the  cut  of  his  patent-leather  boots. 
.  .  .  But  what  did  he  think  about?  Why  did  he  smile 
and  purr  over  her  hand  and  call  her  "dear  lady"? 
Perhaps  all  the  other  women  knew  what  the  game  was 
and  played  it.  To  her  these  men  were  simply  elegant 
automata;  they  never  seemed  really  to  exist  at  all.  She 
supposed  something  went  on  behind  their  impeccable 
masks;  but  what  was  it?  What  impelled  this  Captain 
Hellyar  to  come  and  waste  half  an  hour  in  her  drawing- 
room?  Was  it  merely  in  order  to  let  her  perceive  his 
admiration?  But  what  did  the  admiration  amount  to? 
Where  was  it  supposed  to  lead?  Was  it  just  a  habit? 
Supposing  she  encouraged  him— or  one  of  the  others, 
what  then?  Was  that  the  object  of  the  perfumed  mous- 
tache? If  she  were  to  feel  it  on  her  cheek,  what  would 
be  the  next  stage?  Would  he  reveal  the  fact  that  he 
had  a  personality  of  his  own  behind  the  varnish,  a 
character  capable  of  the  originality  of  passion?  What  a 
boring  little  personality  it  would  probably  be,  she  re- 
flected. But  heaps  of  women  must  like  that  sort  of 
thing,  since  it  is  always  demand  which  creates  supply. 
She  wondered  if  she  would  ever  come  to  understand  the 
psychology  of  the  people  among  whom  she  had  lived 
s»«ice  her  marriage.  She  was  almost  as  far  from  under- 


211 

standing  Vernon  now  as  she  had  been  on  her  wedding 
day.  He  also  wore  a  mask.  Whatever  his  personal 
interests  may  really  have  been,  he  only  liked  to  be  ex- 
pansive about  those  connected  with  sport,  food,  drink, 
amusements.  Even  there  he  only  liked  the  "higher 
drama,"  and  cared  nothing  for  music.  Captain  Hellyar 
would  be  just  like  that  too.  Everything  would  "bore 
him"  except  perhaps  racing,  going  to  Deauville  in  Au- 
gust, and  talking  in  his  club  about  "deuced  handsome" 
women. 

"So  I  don't  really  think  there  is  anything  we  can 
do,"  the  Duchess  concluded.  "We  can  only  hope  they 
will  have  the  sense  to  give  us  an  entirely  free  hand  on 
the  day,  and  not  interfere  with  the  arrangements.  ..." 

Margot  thought  this  rather  a  lame  conclusion  to  a  visit 
ostensibly  intended  for  the  concocting  of  measures. 

"Catch  them  giving  anyone  a  free  hand!"  snapped 
Lady  Cynthia  uncompromisingly.  "They'll  wreck  the 
whole  thing  if  they  possibly  can!" 

"Well,  good-bye,  my  dear,"  said  the  duchess  in  her 
chirpy  voice,  giving  Margot  her  hand.  "I  have  told 
Julia  that  you  will  turn  up  early  on  Tuesday."  Julia  was 
the  marchioness  with  whom  Margot  was  to  share  the 
stall  for  the  sale  of  water-colour  drawings  by  "society" 
artists.  As  the  two  women  swept  out  of  the  room — the 
duchess  like  a  frigate  under  full  sail  and  Lady  Cynthia 
lean  and  black  as  a  torpedo-boat  destroyer — Margot 
wondered  whether  she  was  to  "turn  up  early"  in  order 
to  enable  Julia  to  turn  up  late.  .  .  . 

Captain  Hellyar  nipped  this  line  of  thought  in  the  bud 
by  making  a  remark.  "By  Jove,  it's  awfully  good  of 
you  ladies  to  take  so  much  trouble  over  charities,  upon 
my  word  it  is!  As  for  the  duchess,  I  don't  know  what 


212  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

the  poor   would  do   without   her.     She   is   simply    in- 
defatigable— year  after  year !" 

"Well,  I  hope  it  does  some  good,"  Margot  said.    "It's 
boring  enough!" 

"By  Jove,  yes,  I  suppose  it  must  be!"  said  Captain 
Hellyar,  a  light  dawning  on  him.  He  spoke  with  con- 
viction, as  though  he  had  suddenly  come  face  to  face  with 
some  great  truth.  He  rose,  remembering  that  he  too  had  / 
his  duties.  "I  believe  I'm  supposed  to  be  at  Prince's. 
No  peace,  is  there?  But  it  is  really  rather  amusing 
sometimes  in  the  hour  before  dinner.  Won't  you  let 
me  take  you  one  afternoon?"  It  was  the  obvious  mo- 
ment for  the  handsome  soldier  to  let  off  his  discreetly 
burning  glance.  Margot,  so  to  speak,  watched  it  coming — 
held  herself  ready  for  moustache  perfume.  She  might 
have  laughed  in  his  face  and  turned  him  into  an  enemy 
for  life  if  she  had  not  suddenly  remembered  that  he  be- 
longed to  the  club  in  whose  tent  she  wanted  to  have 
luncheon  on  Gold  Cup  Day.  He  might  come  in  useful. 
She  smiled  back  at  him,  and  he  went  off  in  the  seventh 
heaven.  She  could  almost  see  the  phrase  "Deuced 
handsome  woman"  rattling  about  in  his  brain,  like  a  pea 
in  a  bladder. 


CHAPTER  XX 

WHEN  the  last  visitor  had  gone,  Margot  went  to  her 
room  to  lie  down  to  rest  before  Rachel's  arrival.  It  was 
an  oppressive  afternoon,  although  the  summer  was  not 
far  advanced.  The  unexpected  heat  was  overpowering, 
but  the  leaden  sky  promised  a  thunderstorm  that  would 
be  welcome.  Margot  was  glad  of  a  cold  shower-bath  be- 
fore she  began  to  dress.  She  chose  a  clinging  frock  of 
pale  green,  rather  daringly  cut.  It  was  a  frock  which  she 
thought  showed  her  beauty  to  the  greatest  advantage, 
but  there  were  few  occasions  on  which  she  felt  quite 
safe  in  wearing  it.  This,  however,  was  one  of  them. 

Margot  awaited  her  friend  in  her  own  sitting-room,  a 
small,  oblong-shaped  room  on  the  second  floor,  carpeted 
in  a  vivid  green  drugget.  The  outer  curtains  and  the  felt 
surrounding  the  carpet  were  of  royal  blue.  The  lamp- 
shades were  very  elaborate  and  Eastern.  The  white 
paint  of  door  and  window  frames,  the  azaleas  in  pots, 
all  gave  an  air  of  brightness  to  the  room,  while  the 
pictures  on  the  walls,  if  they  were  of  her  own  choosing, 
did  credit  to  Margot's  taste.  One  of  them  was  a  paint- 
ing of  herself  standing  in  a  shaft  of  sunlight  by  a  dark 
cabinet.  Her  lips  were  slightly  parted,  and  her  china- 
blue  eyes  danced  with  pleasure.  The  pose  vaguely  sug- 
gested Alfred  Stevens'  picture,  "Le  Cabinet  Rose,"  and 
Rachel's  explanation  of  her  look  of  delight  was  that 
Vernon  had  evidently  just  promised  her  a  tiara.  "Noth- 
ing else  would  make  your  eyes  light  up  so,"  Rachel  had 
said.  Margot  thought  of  this  remark  as  she  glanced  at 
her  portrait  while  waiting  for  Rachel  to  arrive.  .  .  . 

213 


214  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

Through  the  open  window  she  could  see  the  trees  which 
make  the  "quaint"  end  of  Charles  Street  so  charming. 
They  were  almost  lyrical  in  their  fresh  greenery  for  this 
wonderful  month,  and  the  foliage  seemed  to  make  a 
lovely  music,  like  the  song  of  birds.  But  in  a  few  weeks' 
time  the  leaves  would  be  heavy  with  dust.  ...  At  last 
she  heard  the  crunch  of  a  brake  as  a  taxi  drew  up  outside 
the  house. 

"My  darling  girl.  What  ages  it  is.  And  how  lovely !" 
Rachel  embraced  her  friend  fervently,  then  disengaged 
herself  to  admire  the  frock — a  curious  glow  of  admira- 
tion seeming  to  run  all  over  her  as  she  did  so.  "You 
are  lovelier  than  ever,  Margot,"  she  went  on.  "There's 
no  doubt  that  marriage  agrees  with  you.  .  .  .  You  can't 
imagine  how  glad  I  am  to  be  back  in  England.  It's  five 
months  to-day  since  mother  died,  so  that  it  must  be 
over  six  months  since  I  last  saw  you.  Do  you  remember 
we  went  to  the  Russian  Ballet  together  and  saw  'Le 
Pavilion  d'Armide'?  We  must  go  again.  I  see  they 
are  doing  several  new  ballets  this  season.  .  .  .  Now  you 
must  tell  me  your  news." 

Margot  knew  quite  well  that  her  capture  of  the 
Duchess  of  Stretton,  her  approaching  attack  on  Princess 
Augusta  of  Hochberg-Leitstein,  would  not  interest  her 
friend  in  the  least,  and  when  she  came  to  examine  her 
life  during  the  past  seven  months  she  discovered  that  it 
had  been  filled  exclusively  with  episodes  of  this  kind, 
varied  by  occasional  quarrels  with  Vernon.  There  had 
been  nothing  else  in  it  at  all.  The  quarrels  with  Vernon 
had  been  the  only  bright  spots.  They  had  relieved  the 
-monotonous  unreality  of  things,  and  it  had  given  her  a 
certain  satisfaction  (of  which  she  was  rather  ashamed) 
to  realise  how  acutely  she  could  hurt  him. 

"I    simply    haven't    done    anything    of    the    slightest 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  215 

interest,  Rachel,"  she  said.  "I  have  seen  Mary 
Henderson  once  or  twice,  which  always  does  me  good, 
though  it  makes  me  discontented.  We  can  get  over 
from  Hotham  fairly  quickly  in  the  car,  you  know;  it's 
only  the  next  county.  She  contrives  to  be  so  tremend- 
ously happy.  And  she  really  does  do  good.  She  doesn't 
play  at  it  as  I  do.  .  .  .  My  dear,  I'm  keeping  a  stall  at 
a  bazaar  on  Tuesday!  I've  forgotten  what  it  is  in  aid 
of.  A  mission  to  Jews,  I  dare  say!"  Margot's  flash  of 
humour  convulsed  Rachel. 

"You  must  send  a  copy  of  the  Morning  Post  describ- 
ing the  function  to  Israel  Falkenheim,"  she  said.  "Do 
you  ever  see  him  now?" 

"We  exchange  poisoned  glances  sometimes,  and  the 
other  night  at  the  Opera  he  had  the  cheek  to  stare  at 
me  through  his  glasses  in  the  entr'acte.  I  was  in  Carl 
Frensen's  box.  You  know  he  hates  Carl  Frensen  like 
sin — so  does  Vernon,  for  that  matter.  I  wonder  why  it 
is?  Has  he  a  purple  past,  do  you  think?" 

"Rather  purple,  I  believe,"  said  Rachel,  "but  of  course 
he  ought  to  be  extinct  by  now !" 

"I  don't  believe  people  ever  become  extinct,  nowa- 
days, however  old  they  get.  Look  at  Lord  Bridley,  for 
instance !  The  legend  that  they  do  is  simply  encouraged 
to  enable  young  girls  to  contract  mercenary  marriages. 
Do  you  know,  I  think  a  girl  has  to  be  very  young  to  be 
forgiven  for  marrying  her  grandfather.  ..." 

"Oh,  I  don't  believe  very  young  girls  are  very  young 
nowadays,"  Rachel  remarked  cynically.  "And  it  is 
simply  amazing  how  coarse  some  of  the  most  refined- 
looking  women  are,  under  the  surface,"  she  went  on. 
"No  wonder  men  say  we  are  only  half  civilised!  But 
how  is  one  ever  to  know  what  other  people  are  like  until 
some  striking  action  shows  them  up  to  us  ?  We  all  of  us 


2i6  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

cover  ourselves  up  in  paint  and  varnish.  It's  just  as  well 
we  do!  At  least  the  result  is  decorative!" 

The  two  friends  went  down  to  dinner,  which  had  been 
set  in  the  library  as  being  cosier  than  the  big  dining- 
room.  Margot  enjoyed  showing  Rachel  the  alterations 
she  had  made  in  the  room,  and  it  was  charming  to  have 
someone  in  whom  she  could  confide.  The  two  details 
about  the  dinner  which  pleased  Rachel  particularly  were 
the  bowl  of  red  roses  in  the  centre  of  the  table,  and  the 
fact  that  the  waiting  was  done  by  the  maids  instead  of 
by  the  men-servants. 

After  dinner  they  went  upstairs  once  more  to  Margot's 
"den." 

"You  know  it  is  jolly  to  see  you  again,  Rachel," 
Margot  said  as  they  settled  themselves  on  the  comfort- 
able round  sofa.  "You  always  make  me  think  of  the 
days  when  we  first  met.  I  don't  suppose  you  can  realise 
how  exciting  those  days  were  for  me!  It's  just  that 
excitement  that  I  miss  ...  Of  course,  Vernon  is  a 
great  dear,  and  it's  jolly  being  married  and  having  a 
house  and  all  that.  But  you  will  never  be  able  to  under- 
stand what  that  first  summer  was  like,  three  years  ago, 
when  I  was  staying  with  the  Falkenheims.  ..." 

"They  were  awfully  good  to  you." 

"Yes,  I  haven't  forgotten.  I  was  only  talking  non- 
sense just  now  about  the  "poisoned  glances'!  I  make 
a  point  of  not  cutting  them  when  we  meet,  which  we  do 
occasionally.  Mrs.  Falkenheim  bows  to  me  quite 
placidly,  just  as  if  I  had  dined  there  the  night  before; 
but  Israel  always  looks  like  the  Recording  Angel.  He 
takes  off  his  hat  gravely ;  his  face  never  moves  a  muscle. 
Funny,  isn't  it,  when  one  remembers  what  happened? 
Did  I  ever  tell  you,  Rachel?  He  used  to  lie  in  wait  for 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  217 

roe,  you  know — outside  my  room.  That's  what  I  meant 
about  volcanoes  never  getting  extinct.  ..." 

Rachel  had  heard  the  story  from  Margot  before,  also 
rather  different  stories  from  other  people.  But  she  be- 
lieved Margot's  version  implicitly.  Could  any  man,  how- 
ever old,  resist  such  radiant  beauty? 

"You  know  men  are  all  the  same.  They  are  all  so 
much  more  animal  than  we  are.  Women  who  are  as  bad 
as  men  in  that  respect  are  exceptions.  I  admit  the  ex- 
ceptions are  sometimes  worse.  ..." 

"I  wonder  if  you  are  right,  Rachel?"  Margot  asked. 
"I'm  not  at  all  sure  if  what  you  call  'animalism'  isn't 
something  that's  perfectly  normal  to  men  and  women 
alike;  and  no  more  revolting  than  any  other  sign  of 
bodily  health,  like  a  good  appetite  for  breakfast,  for 
instance.  The  trouble  with  us  women  is  that  we  nearly 
always  sentimentalise  over  the  sex  business.  If  we  meet 
a  good-looking  man  who  rouses  our  desires,  we  must 
needs  try  to  make  the  whole  affair  into  a  grande  passion 
and  endow  the  poor  creature  with  all  sorts  of  qualities  he 
doesn't  possess.  Men,  luckily,  do  the  same  with  us.  All 
that  we  are  really  after,  the  whole  time,  is  just  sensual 
gratification.  No,  I  don't  believe  there's  anything  to 
choose  between  men  and  women  except  that  women  will 
let  their  hearts  get  in  the  way.  ..." 

"Dearest  Margot,"  said  Rachel,  "you  are  unjust  to 
women  because  I  don't  think  you  really  quite  understand 
them.  The  women  you  talk  about  are  only  those  who 
have  not  yet  broken  free  from  the  age-long  sex  bondage. 
They  are  still  just  what  the  men  make  of  them.  But 
there  are  numbers  of  other  women  who  have  got  rid 
of  that  kind  of  thing,  completely:  set  themselves 
free." 

"Then  they  can't  be  healthy.  .    .   ." 


218  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

"Indeed  they  are;  and  they  are  certainly  not  cold. 
They  have  a  true  respect  for  their  own  sex;  and  their 
whole  attitude  and  outlook  on  life  are  more  spiritual  than 
a  man's  outlook." 

"Why,  Rachel,  you've  changed  in  the  last  three  years 
almost  as  much  as  I  have!" 

"I  suppose  I  have.  I've  come  to  understand  things 
better,  especially  other  women.  You  don't  know,  Mar- 
got,  what  a  splendid  thing  it  is  to  be  a  woman.  The  old 
idea  that  woman  is  dependent  for  everything  on  man 
is  exploded,  done  for.  Women  have  a  genius  of  their 
own,  which  doesn't  in  the  least  need  men's  help  for  its 
development  and  growth."  Rachel  looked  eagerly  at  her 
friend,  her  eyes  shining.  All  her  old  subdued  gentleness 
had  left  her  now.  She  was  eager  and  enthusiastic,  but 
her  lovely  eyes  had  in  them  something  hungry  and 
anxious  which  disquieted  Margot,  whilst  rousing  her 
curiosity. 

"Talking  of  genius,"  Rachel  went  on,  "Genee  is 
dancing  again  in  London,  in  'Robert  le  Diable.'  Will 
you  come  and  dine  with  me  on  Wednesday  and  go  on 
afterwards  to  see  her?" 

"Why,  of  course,  Rachel,"  she  said,  "I  shall  love  to 
come.  I've  never  been  to  a  music-hall  in  my  life.  .  .  . 
It  will  be  most  exciting  and  such  a  relief!  You  can't 
think  how  bored  one  gets.  ...  Do  you  know,  my  dear, 
I  shall  have  to  spend  the  whole  of  Tuesday  selling  'works 
of  art,'  at  the  Duchess  of  Stretton's !  Can  you  imagine 
anything  more  tedious?  However,  I've  let  myself  in 
for  it.  There  is  no  escape,  apparently,  though  I'm 
just  about  reaching  the  end  of  my  tether.  One  of 
these  days  I  shall  tell  Vernon  I  can't  stand  any 
more." 

But  Rachel  was  not  in  the  least  interested  in  Margot's 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  219 

duchess.  As  soon  as  she  could,  she  changed  the  subject 
to  the  new  decorations  of  her  drawing-room. 

"I  really  think  it  is  rather  original,"  she  said.  "All 
the  decorations  are  in  red  and  black.  The  black  carpet 
and  black  tulips  are  extraordinary  effective." 

"Black  tulips !"  exclaimed  Margot. 

"Yes,  darling.  Isn't  it  a  cute  idea?  I  first  tried  them 
yesterday  evening.  It  is  simply  wonderful,  you  would 
never  believe  how  well  the  black  tulips  look.  My  florist 
gets  them  specially  for  me.  ..." 

"Well,  I  shall  be  thrilled  to  see  the  room,  Rachel," 
Margot  replied. 

The  conversation  drifted  back  to  the  absorbing  topic 
of  the  opposite  sex. 

"I  can't  understand  why  you  have  suddenly  got  such 
a  down  on  men,"  said  Margot.  "Men  are  put  into  the 
world  to  be  useful  to  us.  What  is  it  you  object  to  in 
them  ?  So  long  as  we  don't  break  our  hearts  and  all  that 
kind  of  thing,  men  are  at  our  own  mercy!  By  making 
use  of  them,  a  woman  can  do  as  she  likes.  Their  admira- 
tion keeps  us  interested  in  life;  and  they  are  necessary 
to  our  happiness  in  so  many  ways !" 

"That's  where  I  can't  agree,  darling.  I  shall  have  to 
initiate  you  into  the  woman  movement  I  can  see.  I'm 
not  a  suffragette,  you  know,  and  politics  bore  me,  per- 
sonally; but  the  whole  movement  is  simply  the  most 
splendid  thing  that  has  happened  in  our  time !"  Rachel's 
eyes  shone  with  enthusiasm  as  she  warmed  to  her  topic. 
"Of  course,  you,  as  a  married  woman,  are  inclined  to 
think  that  no  female  can  be  happy  or  even  sane,  if  she 
hasn't  a  husband  or  lovers.  But  it  isn't  so,  it  really 
isn't.  I  don't  want  you  to  get  the  impression  that  I've 
suddenly  turned  into  a  frantic  man-hater.  I  don't  really 
like  men  any  less  than  I  did ;  but  where  the  change  lies 


220  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

is  in  the  fact  that  in  the  last  year  or  two  I  have  grown 
to  appreciate  women  more.  As  a  young  girl,  of  course, 
like  everyone  else,  I  wasn't  particularly  pleased  to  be  a 
female;  and  when  I  reached  the  'clever'  age  I  had  a 
great  distrust  and  dislike  for  my  own  sex.  It  is  only 
recently,  within  the  last  few  years,  that  I  have  come  to 
realise  how  wrong  I  was.  Women  are  splendid,  Margot ! 
We  are  at  the  dawn  of  a  new  era.  The  whole  outlook  for 
women  is  changing  and  widening.  Now  don't  think  I 
am  talking  suffrage.  I  don't  mean  politics  at  all. 
Politics  are  only  the  pompous  frivolity  of  second-rate 
minds.  I  mean  things  that  matter.  ..." 

Margot  smiled  at  her  friend,  as  she  sat  flushed  and 
eager,  so  unlike  the  placid  Rachel  she  had  first  known. 

"But  if  we  play  our  cards  right  we  are  boss  of  the 
show  already,  dearest,"  Margot  replied,  "thanks  to  our 
continued  influence  and  ascendancy  over  men.  We  pull 
the  strings,  like  that  creature  in  the  play.  The  men 
dance.  The  result  is  that  we  are  all-powerful.  But 
as  soon  as  we  eliminate  men  and  cease  to  enslave  them, 
I  can't  see  that  we  have  a  chance.  We  can't  compete 
on  equal  terms  with  them.  And  we  can't  alter  our  bodies 
just  because  we  change  our  ideas.  Personally  I  don't 
want  to  have  children ;  but  I'm  exceptional  in  that  way ; 
and  so,  perhaps,  are  you.  But  it  is  surely  obvious  that 
child-bearing  is  what  we  women  are  intended  for.  From 
our  necks  to  our  knees,  we're  made  for  nothing  else.  .  .  . 
To  most  of  us,  therefore,  men  are  essential  for  our 
natural  fulfilment  and  growth.  ..." 

"My  dear,"  said  Rachel,  "I  quite  agree  that  many 
women,  perhaps  the  majority  of  us,  are  admirably  fitted 
for  motherhood.  But  I  don't  agree  that  that  is  what  all 
women  are  for,  any  more  than  I  agree  that  paternity 
must  necessarily  form  part  of  a  man's  career.  That  is 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  221 

an  absurd  belief.  The  world  is  over-populated  as  it  is. 
Let  there  be  a  minority  of  both  sexes  who  specialise  in 
parentage — just  as  some  people  specialise  in  medicine  or 
the  law.  Surely  there  is  no  reason  why  the  whole  of 
mankind  should  thus  be  held  in  bondage  to  posterity? 
After  all,  if  we  were  blindly  to  fall  in  with  Nature's 
views,  where  on  earth  should  we  be?  What  are  our 
minds  and  our  souls  for,  except  to  arm  us  against  Na- 
ture? If  Nature  had  her  way  there  would  be  no  morality 
at  all ;  and  instead  of  wearing  lovely  clothes,  our  bodies 
would  probably  be  covered  with  nasty,  bristly  fur  to  keep 
the  cold  out!  I  believe,  Margot,  you  cling  to  the  old 
theory  that  a  woman  who  doesn't  choose  to  marry  the 
first  male  she  meets,  or  to  pander  to  some  man's  animal- 
ism without  the  ceremony,  hasn't  a  right  to  exist.  But 
she  has.  There's  a  higher  life  open  to  her  if  she  can 
only  grasp  it — a  full,  wonderful,  glorious  life " 

"Well,"  said  Margot  indulgently,  "you  are  rapidly 
making  a  convert.  I  really  haven't  ever  thought  about 
these  things  in  relation  to  other  poeple.  I  dare  say  you 
are  perfectly  right,  Rachel.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
men  like  me,  and  I've  gained  everything  I  have  from 
their  liking.  But  I  can  well  believe  things  might  have 
fallen  out  differently.  .  .  . !" 

Rachel  leaned  forward  on  the  sofa  on  which  they  were 
both  sitting,  and  put  her  arm  round  Margot's  bare 
shoulders  and  kissed  her.  "Men  would  indeed  be  fools, 
darling,"  she  said,  "if  they  didn't  appreciate  you.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WHEN  Rachel  had  gone  and  her  maid  was  brushing 
her  hair,  Margot  sat  thoughtfully  in  front  of  her  looking- 
glass.  It  seemed  to  her  odd  that  she  should  be  excited 
at  the  idea  of  going  to  a  music-hall  with  Rachel.  Before 
her  marriage  it  would  not  have  seemed  so  strange,  but 
she  felt  that  by  this  time  she  ought  to  have  grown  out  of 
Rachel.  Instead  of  that,  she  seemed  only  just  beginning 
to  appreciate  her.  Her  married  life  had  not  turned  out 
quite  as  she  had  anticipated  it  would.  The  mere  fact 
of  making  a  rich  and  splendid  marriage  had  not  brought 
with  it  all  the  joy  and  contentment  she  had  looked  for. 
On  the  whole,  however,  she  liked  Vernon  better  than 
she  had  expected,  and  she  was  grateful  to  him  for  his 
devotion  to  her  at  the  time  of  his  father's  death.  What 
anxious  weeks  they  had  been — when  she  stood  to  gain  or 
lose  everything — and  how  splendidly  Adam  had  played 
up  over  the  wedding !  .  .  .  Looking  back  over  the  past, 
she  could  not  but  congratulate  herself  on  her  astuteness, 
her  determination.  The  slightest  mistake  would  have 
meant  shipwreck.  But  she  had  not  made  a  mistake. 
Now  that  she  was  safely  wedded  and  provided  with  a 
settlement  (Adam  had  been  a  brick  over  the  settlement 
and  done  the  "heavy  father"  to  perfection),  she  was 
beginning  to  feel  a  reaction.  It  was,  as  she  had  told 
Rachel,  the  excitement  that  she  missed,  the  excitement 
of  those  hectic  days  she  had  spent  with  the  Falkenheims 
in  Richbourne  Terrace,  of  the  days  which  followed  Sir 
William  Stokes's  death,  of  her  honeymoon  tour  and 
Presentation.  The  last  year  had  been  a  strain,  because  so 
little  had  happened  in  it :  she  had  been  so  secure ;  and  it 

222 


.    M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  223 

had  been  a  strain  because  she  could  no  longer  close  her 
ears  to  the  quiet  voice  of  her  own  conscience.  She  was 
ashamed  of  herself  for  her  treatment  of  Vernon,  ashamed 
of  her  mercenary  marriage,  ashamed  of  having  sold  her 
body  for  wealth,  for  social  position — things  on  which  she 
no  longer  put  the  old  valuation.  The  cry  of  her  starved 
and  hungry  soul  gave  her  no  peace.  She  was  unhappy, 
because  she  did  not  love.  Love !  How  much  there  was 
in  that  hackneyed  word  which  at  last — perhaps  too  late — 
she  was  beginning  to  understand.  The  joy  of  love  came 
from  giving,  from  surrendering.  How  infinitely  more 
blessed  it  was  for  a  woman  to  give  than  to  receive ! 

Vernon  had  settled  down  to  the  routine  of  life  at 
Hotham  and  in  Charles  Street,  and  as  the  months  went 
by  he  never  revealed  to  her  any  new  aspects  of  his  char- 
acter. She  did  not  believe  he  ever  would  reveal  any: 
there  was  something  at  once  impenetrable  and  wooden 
about  him,  which  maddened  her.  He  had  nothing  of  the 
elusiveness  of  a  man  like  Godfrey  Levett,  for  instance. 
She  had  not  thought  of  Godfrey  for  a  long  time,  but 
Rachel's  visit  reminded  her  of  him.  She  wondered  why 
she  had  seen  nothing  of  him  since  her  marriage.  It  was 
strange  that  they  had  not  met  anywhere.  She  began  to 
speculate  as  to  what  he  had  been  doing,  what  sort  of  life 
he  had  been  leading.  She  felt  certain  that  he  would  not 
have  married ;  and  she  thought  of  his  mocking,  intelligent 
eyes.  He  didn't  care  for  women,  or  at  least,  he  did  not 
allow  himself  to  be  fooled  by  them.  She  liked  him  for 
this.  She  determined  to  ask  Rachel  for  his  address. 
She  would  send  him  a  card  for  her  dance.  She  remem- 
bered how  he  had  prophesied  that  she  would  become  a 
great  London  hostess,  and  had  impressed  on  her  that  he 
must  have  his  quail  at  supper!  Well,  he  should  have 
his  quail.  It  would  be  amusing  to  talk  over  old  times 


224  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

with  him,  and  he  would  tell  her  the  latest  gossip  about 
the  Falkenheims. 

"Milady  is  thoughtful  this  evening,"  said  Ernestine, 
as  she  finished  doing  Margot's  hair.  But  Margot  did 
not  want  to  talk  to  her  maid  to-night.  She  wished  to  be 
left  alone.  She  enjoyed  the  unusual  solitude  and  wanted 
to  make  the  most  of  it.  After  all,  this  was  almost  the 
first  time  since  her  marriage  that  she  and  Vernon  had 
slept  under  different  roofs.  A  great  resentment  against 
the  institution  of  marriage  grew  up  in  her,  as  she  turned 
off  the  switch  of  her  reading-lamp  and  settled  herself 
to  sleep. 

Vernon  came  back  in  time  for  luncheon  on  Wednesday, 
very  full  of  the  new  garage  and  disappointed  with  her 
for  not  being  more  interested.  "I  don't  believe  you 
would  care  a  straw,  Margot,  if  Hotham  were  burnt  to 
the  ground,"  he  remarked. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "that  entirely  depends  on  whether 
it  is  fully  insured  or  not !" 

Vernon's  eye  rested  on  her  resentfully  for  a  moment, 
but  his  resent  fulness  died  away  as  he  looked  at  her — 
so  fresh  and  radiant,  in  her  thin  blouse.  How  passionate 
she  was,  under  that  mask  of  indifference;  how  she  adored 
him!  Whenever  her  apparent  coldness,  her  seeming 
complete  lack  of  affection  distressed  and  worried  him, 
he  would  think  of  her  in  her  voluptuous  moods  and  his 
self-complacency  would  be  restored. 

"I'm  dining  with  Rachel,  to-night,"  Margot  remarked, 
when  luncheon  was  over  and  Vernon  had  finished  telling 
her  about  the  architect.  "We  are  to  go  to  a  music-hall 
to  see  Genee  dance.  ..." 

Margot  had  long  been  aware  of  Vernon's  dislike  of 
Rachel.  It  amused  her  to  watch  the  expression  of  dis- 
gust which  he  concealed  with  difficulty. 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  225 

"I  hope  you  will  enjoy  yourself.  Personally,  if  you 
will  forgive  me  saying  so,  I  think  Rachel  Elkington  is 
one  of  the  most  poisonous  women  in  London,  and  always 
have."  Margot  noticed  that  his  eyes  grew  hard  and  that 
he  gnawed  his  moustache  as  he  made  this  admission. 
"But  if  you  like  her,  I  suppose  I  must  be  wrong.  I  shall 
probably  dine  at  the  Bachelor's  with  Patcham.  ..." 

He  went  out  of  the  room,  leaving  her  maliciously 
amused.  She  enjoyed  rubbing  in  Rachel;  it  was  a  little 
torture  that  never  failed  in  its  effect.  And  yet,  she  re- 
flected, was  not  "rubbing  things  in"  rather  a  cheap 
form  of  entertainment?  It  grew  tedious  after  a  while. 
When,  later  on,  the  car  came  round  and  she  started  off 
to  make  some  calls,  it  dawned  on  her  once  again  that  until 
her  marriage  she  had  never  in  her  whole  life  really  suf- 
fered from  ennui,  and  that  not  for  months  had  she 
looked  forward  to  anything  as  much  as  she  looked  for- 
ward to  her  evening  with  Rachel. 

When  the  time  came  for  her  to  dress  for  dinner 
Ernestine  found  her  mistress  in  a  capricious  mood.  Of 
her  array  of  dinner  frocks  she  could  not  make  a  choice. 
One  after  another  was  laid  out  on  the  bed,  turned  over, 
tried  on,  and  rejected.  The  atmosphere  grew  decidedly 
stormy,  and  Ernestine's  usually  imperturbable  good 
temper  began  to  be  ruffled.  Finally  Margot  chose  a  frock 
of  black  charmeuse,  made  with  a  certain  severity  of  line, 
and  adorned  only  with  one  red  rose  at  the  waist  and  a 
shimmer  of  spangles  on  the  sleeves  and  bodice.  It  was  a 
beautiful  frock,  by  Premet,  and  its  skillful  simplicity 
showed  to  perfection  Margot's  radiant  youth.  Her  skin, 
after  her  bath,  when  Ernestine  had  dusted  it  with  her 
favourite  powder,  gleamed  at  her  in  the  glass.  Her 
face,  lightly  flushed  towards  the  ears  with  rouge,  had 
an  almost  uncanny  freshness.  Since  her  marriage  she 


226  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

had  filled  out,  blossomed;  and  her  beauty  had  grown 
more  striking. 

"Milady  is  at  her  loveliest  this  evening,"  said 
Ernestine  caressingly.  "Never  has  milady  looked 
better!" 

By  the  time  that  she  was  ready  to  go  down  to  the 
car,  even  Margot  was  more  or  less  satisfied  with  her 
appearance.  She  did  not  know  why  she  should  be  feel- 
ing so  anxious  this  evening  to  look  her  best.  Perhaps 
it  was  that  Rachel's  taste  in  clothes,  as  in  everything 
else,  was  so  faultless. 

When  Margot  reached  her  friend's  house,  she  was 
shown  straight  upstairs  to  her  bedroom,  where  Rachel 
was  busy  with  her  maid,  putting  finishing  touches. 

Rachel  had  definitely  settled  down  in  the  house  in 
Hyde  Park  Street  which  her  mother  had  left  her.  She 
had  no  "companion,"  but  a  constant  succession  of  friends 
to  stay  with  her. 

"Nina  Meadowes  is  coming  next  week,"  she  said 
during  dinner,  "but  I'm  all  alone  to-day.  I  didn't  get 
anyone  in  for  dinner,  darling,  as  I  thought  it  would  be 
so  much  more  fun,  just  us  two.  You  haven't  seen  the 
drawing-room  yet,  have  you?  But  you  remember  my 
telling  you  it  has  been  redecorated  a  la  Russe?  I  must 
take  you  up  afterward  and  show  you.  We  have  plenty 
of  time,  as  Genee  doesn't  come  on  till  half-past  nine. 
My  dear,  she  is  too  wonderful.  ..." 

"Do  you  know,  I've  never  been  inside  a  music-hall 
yet  in  my  life!"  said  Margot.  "Isn't  it  odd?  I'm  quite 
excited  at  the  prospect.  Vernon  never  goes  to  music- 
halls,  and  even  the  Opera  bores  him.  He  pretends  he 
likes  the  "higher  drama"  and  all  that,  and  plays  full  of 
epigrams.  He  believes  in  people  who  sit  looking  at  each 
other  for  about  half  an  hour  and  then  cough  up  one  re- 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  227 

mark,  full  of  interior  meanings.  Personally,  I  prefer 
the  people  who  gabble-gabble  straight  ahead,  without 
caring  if  they  talk  rot.  We  disagree  about  plays,  hope- 
lessly. .  .  .  How  pretty  this  room  is!"  Margot  look- 
ed round  the  familiar  dining-room,  while  George  tact- 
fully filled  her  glass  with  champagne.  He,  like  the 
room,  had  not  changed.  Margot  glanced  round  her  as 
she  spoke.  There  was  the  ugly  Kneller  in  its  usual 
place,  and  the  Cuyp  in  its  great  gold  frame  hanging 
above  the  sideboard.  It  looked  rich  and  mysterious  in 
the  shaded  candle-light,  and  the  red  coat  of  the  hunts- 
man in  the  right-hand  corner  of  the  canvas  was  hardly 
distinguishable.  "It  is  cosy,  isn't  it?"  Rachel  admitted. 
"I  haven't  altered  anything  since  mother  died.  It  is 
just  as  it  was.  Upstairs,  though,  the  changes  have  been 
revolutionary.  I'm  not  nearly  satisfied  yet." 

"Capricious !" 

"Perhaps.  But  it  is  tremendously  interesting  trying 
experiments  with  rooms.  It  exercises  one's  imagination, 
and  that  is  always  a  good  thing.  Let  us  go  up  and 
have  our  cigarettes  and  coffee.  Then  we  must  start. 
We  ought  to  get  settled  in  our  seats  a  few  minutes  before 
she  appears." 

The  drawing-room,  which  in  Mrs.  Elkington's  time 
had  always  a  touch  of  homeliness  and  was  not  innocent 
of  framed  photographs  and  mild  Victorian  water-colours, 
was  now  transformed  out  of  recognition — a  black  carpet, 
pale  cream-coloured  walls,  crimson  curtains,  broad  divans 
which  gave  the  room  a  vaguely  Oriental  appearance, 
crimson-shaded  candelabra,  and  the  gleaming  black  piano 
from  the  music-room.  The  room  was  all  broad  effects ; 
there  were  no  trumpery  minute  details.  There  were 
only  six  pictures  on  the  walls,  and  they  were  all  framed 
in  black.  They  were  strange  pictures  by  Russian 


228  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

painters — pictures  of  Tartar  hunting  scenes;  of  yoked 
cheetahs  held  in  lash;  of  saints  playing  on  harps,  the 
strings  of  which  were  stretched  between  earth  and 
heaven;  of  warfare  in  the  sky;  of  morne,  unearthly  land- 
scapes, mysterious  and  violent,  like  a  hurricane  on 
canvas.  Margot  sank  down  on  one  of  the  divans  by 
Rachel's  side  and  gasped.  "Fancy  you  having  all  this 
in  your  head  and  not  telling  me,  Rachel !" 

"Darling,  I'm  always  getting  new  things  into  my 
head !  You  forget  we  haven't  seen  one  another  for  ages 
until  just  recently.  ..." 

They  reached  the  music-hall  where  Genee  was  dancing 
just  after  the  interval,  and  as  she  settled  herself  in  the 
front  of  the  box,  Margot  looked  round  the  large  house 
with  curiosity.  It  was  crowded  with  people;  there 
seemed  to  be  hardly  an  unoccupied  seat  anywhere  to  be 
seen,  and  the  faces  seemed  much  more  eager  and  alert 
than  the  faces  of  the  average  theatre  audience.  A  little 
haze  of  blue  smoke  rose  up  from  stalls  and  circle;  the 
occasional  striking  of  matches  and  the  hum  of  conver- 
sation suggested  easiness  and  lack  of  constraint.  The 
"turn"  that  was  in  progress  did  not  strike  her  as  being 
specially  "artistic."  Three  well-built  young  Germans 
dressed  in  suits  of  sky-blue  combinations,  over  which 
they  wore  pairs  of  silver,  triangular-shaped  bathing 
drawers,  were  busy  throwing  glittering  wooden  bottles 
at  one  another.  Sometimes  one  of  the  three  would 
collect  all  the  bottles  in  one  hand,  and  then  they  advanced 
smiling  to  the  footlights,  received  some  mild  applause, 
and  began  to  do  something  else.  They  were  very  mus- 
cular and  perspiring  and  indefatigable.  They  seemed  to 
throw  the  bottles  at  one  another  as  hard  as  ever  they 
could,  and  this  ferocity  seemed  to  please  the  audience. 
When  they  were  not  throwing  bottles  they  jumped  on  one 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  229 

another's  shoulders,  making  a  kind  of  human  tower,  the 
supporting  unit  of  which  staggered  breathlessly  round 
the  stage  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  long  tattoo  on  the 
drums.  Margot  was  glad  when  the  tune  to  which  their 
other  manoeuvres  had  been  performed  came  to  an  end. 
The  beating  of  the  drums  marked  the  culmination  of  the 
performers'  efforts,  and  when  it  stopped  they  jumped  off 
one  another's  shoulder's  and  advanced  across  the  stage 
with  outstretched  hands  and  broad  smiles.  Then  the  red 
curtains  swung  together,  obliterating  them,  and  the 
flunkeys  on  either  side  of  the  proscenium  put  a  fresh 
number  into  the  stand. 

"Here  she  is,  darling,"  said  Rachel.  "She  is  dancing 
in  Meyerbeer's  'Robert  le  Diable*  to-night.  You've 
seen  Degas'  picture.  The  present  setting  isn't  in  the 
least  like  the  picture,  though.  ..."  The  conductor, 
who  had  not  put  in  an  appearance  for  the  acrobats, 
now  emerged  from  under  the  stage,  took  his  seat,  and 
struck  the  stand  twice  with  his  baton.  During  the  first 
part  of  the  ballet  Margot  was  more  occupied  in  watching 
her  companion  than  in  watching  the  great  dancer  she 
had  come  to  see.  A  look  of  absorption  and  delight  came 
over  Rachel's  face  from  the  first  moment  of  Genee's  ap- 
pearance. Margot  looked,  noticed  the  dancer's  attractive 
gamine  expression,  the  perky  poise  of  her  little  head 
covered  with  pale  gold  hair,  her  extraordinaiy  brilliance 
combined  with  something  humorous  and  elfin  in  her  ex- 
pression, the  marvellous  way  she  "took  the  stage."  The 
steps  seemed  to  be  almost  miraculous — the  pirouettings 
on  her  toes,  the  bendings  backwards  and  forwards,  and 
the  sure-footed  dartings  in  and  out  among  the  white- 
veiled  nuns.  But  evidently  Rachel  was  getting  more  out 
of  the  performance  than  she  was.  She  envied  her  friend 
this  capacity,  which  she  perceived  sprang  largely  from 


230  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

knowledge  and  a  kind  of  mental  cultivation.  Rachel  was 
not  only  musically  well  educated,  but  she  had  studied 
the  art  of  dancing  and  had  seen  all  the  great  dancers  of 
her  day.  After  a  while  Margot  gave  up  observing  Rachel 
and  fixed  her  attention  on  Genee  instead,  until  gradually 
the  witchery  of  an  astonishing  personality  caught  hold  of 
her  and  she  forgot  herself.  The  dancer's  brilliance  was 
like  sunlight  or  the  rippling  of  clear  water;  there  was 
something  sexless  and  unearthly  about  her.  Margot  re- 
sented the  male  Russian  in  "low-necked"  black  costume 
and  large  picture  hat  who  assisted  her  to  twirl ;  he  seemed 
to  spoil  the  illusion.  She  would  have  liked  to  go  on 
watching  Genee  in  the  middle  of  the  stage,  alone,  ab- 
sorbing all  the  limelight,  all  the  attention.  This  was  her 
due,  and  she  seemed  to  Margot  to  be  the  very  incarnation 
of  radiance  and  joyousness — happy  laughter  translated 
into  movement. 

At  the  end  of  the  ballet  Rachel  appeared  to  wake  up 
as  from  a  trance ;  she  had  evidently  completely  forgotten 
Margot's  presence.  .  .  . 

"She  was  dancing  better  than  ever  to-night,"  she  said 
at  last.  "I  am  so  glad  you  saw  her  for  the  first  time 
at  her  very  best.  You  know  she  is  the  greatest  dancer 
of  our  generation,"  she  remarked  enthusiastically,  as 
they  drove  back  to  Hyde  Park  Street.  "There  isn't  any- 
one with  the  same  range.  She  can  do  anything  from 
the  strictest  classic  dancing  of  the  kind  you  saw  to-night 
to  the  most  modern  brand  of  character  dancing  in  an 
Empire  ballet.  And  what  an  actress  she  is!  Did  you 
ever  see  such  an  expressive  face?" 

Rachel's  enthusiasm  opened  new  worlds  of  interest  to 
Margot,  and  she  could  not  avoid  comparing  it  with 
Vernon's  stilted  approval  of  the  higher  drama. 

"I  can't  think  why  on  earth  I've  never  been  to  a 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  231 

music-hall  before,"  Margot  remarked.  "I  am  so  grate- 
ful to  you,  Rachel,  for  taking  me !" 

They  went  upstairs  to  Rachel's  bedroom  to  remove 
their  wraps  and  to  tidy  themselves.  Margot  stood  in 
front  of  the  long  cheval  glass  to  study  the  effect  of  her 
frock. 

"You  vain  beauty!"  said  Rachel,  putting  her  arm 
round  her  waist.  They  stood  looking  at  each  other's 
reflection  for  a  moment  or  two.  They  made  a  striking 
contrast.  Margot  fair  and  blue-eyed,  rose-cheeked,  with 
softly  ripened  bosom  and  narrow  lips;  Rachel  tall  and 
thin,  with  pale,  ivory-white  complexion  and  scarlet  lips, 
and  hair  dark  as  night  and  dark  liquid  eyes.  "We  look 
like  night  and  day  or  virtue  and  vice!"  said  Rachel 
with  a  laugh.  They  went  down  to  the  drawing-room, 
where  George  had  put  out  for  them  a  pint  bottle  of 
Clicquot  and  some  delicious  fole  gras  sandwiches,  and 
Margot  reflected  that  she  had  hardly  ever  spent  such 
an  amusing  evening  in  her  life  before.  It  came  over  her 
with  renewed  force  that  half  the  things  which  she  had 
hitherto  fancied  desirable  were  in  reality  dead,  tedious, 
stupid.  No  wonder  Rachel  could  not  rouse  herself  to 
show  any  interest  in  her  duchesses  and  her  bazaars,  in 
her  petty,  worthless  ambitions  which  it  cost  her  so  much 
hard  work  and  concentration  to  gratify ! 

When  she  had  filled  the  two  thin  tumblers  with  cham- 
pagne, Rachel  moved  across  the  room  to  the  piano — 
with  the  gracefulness  of  a  snake — and  began  Ravel's 
setting  of  "Le  Gibet"  out  of  "Gaspard  de  la  Nuit." 
While  her  friend  played  Margot  found  that  her  thoughts 
flowed  with  extraordinary  ease  in  pleasant  and  exciting 
channels.  Her  eyes  also  travelled  round  the  room, 
taking  in  the  details  of  its  curious  decorations — the 
cream-coloured  walls,  with  the  black-framed  Stelletskys, 


232  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

Roerichs,  and  Von  Anreps  adorning  them,  the  black 
carpet,  the  crimson  curtains.  Petrouschka,  the  old  white 
borzoi,  who  was  lying,  paws  out,  by  the  fireplace  got  up, 
yawned,  stretched  himself,  and  walked  slowly  towards 
her,  gazing  at  her  with  his  sad  northern  eyes  and  putting 
up  his  long  muzzle  to  be  caressed.  .  .  . 

Margot  did  not  want  Rachel  to  stop  playing.  The 
music  made  her  brain  work,  and  she  loved  sitting  in  her 
comfortable  chair  and  looking  at  the  room,  and  watch- 
ing her  friend's  long  white  hands  floating  over  the  black 
and  white  keys,  and  her  absorbed,  intent  face — so  pale 
and  with  such  red  lips — and  her  deep,  hungry  eyes.  She 
felt  that  this  evening  marked  a  turning-point  in  her 
life.  She  knew  she  would  never  be  satisfied  any  more 
with  the  existence  she  had  been  leading.  She  had  been 
swimming,  since  her  marriage,  in  a  kind  of  golden  soup- 
tureen  ;  Rachel  had  come  along,  swung  back  the  lid,  and 
revealed  to  her  a  limitless  heaven  all  ablaze  with 
stars.  .  .  . 

Yet  while  she  sat  silently  on  a  great  black  divan  with 
crimson  cushions  thinking  these  thoughts  and  listening 
lo  Ravel's  music,  a  vague  feeling  of  oppression  came  over 
her.  It  was  all,  somehow,  too  exciting  to  enable  her  to 
feel  at  peace.  The  young  red  blood  in  her  veins  ran  too 
quickly,  too  fiercely,  for  the  exotic  and  rarefied  atmo- 
sphere of  the  room.  Rachel  never  used  to  be  like  this 
in  the  old  days!  Margot  realised  the  fact  that  people, 
if  they  have  anything  in  them,  do  not  remain  static 
but  alter  and  develop;  but,  even  so,  she  could  not  quite 
account  for  the  change  that  had  come  over  Rachel's 
character.  Her  whole  nature  now  seemed  subtly  dif- 
ferent from  what  she  remembered  it  three  years  ago. 
It  was  as  though  she  had  taken  some  slow  poison  for 
the  soul,  which  had  given  her  a  morbid  and  feverish 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  233 

animation;  some  insidious  and  deadly  drug,  which  had 
gradually  changed  her  from  the  gentle  and  refined  girl 
whom  she  remembered  into  the  half-mad  aesthete  who 
was  sitting  now  at  the  piano. 

Margot  had  an  instinct  that,  keenly  as  Rachel  inter- 
ested her,  something  had  happened  to  their  friendship, 
to  the  old  sympathy  which  had  existed  between  them. 
And  yet  what  an  amusing  time  she  had  spent,  and  how 
she  had  enjoyed  being  taken  to  see  Genee! 

As  soon  as  Rachel  finished  playing  Margot  got  up  to 
go.  "My  dear,"  she  said,  "I  have  enjoyed  myself  so 
much.  I  shall  always  be  grateful  to  you  for  taking  me 
to  my  first  music-hall !" 

There  was  a  certain  constraint  in  the  way  she  uttered 
her  polite  phrases  which  did  not  escape  Rachel's  keen 
sensibility.  They  embraced  one  another,  but  Margot's 
cheeks  were  marble. 

"By  the  way,"  Margot  said,  as  her  friend  helped  her 
with  her  cloak,  "while  I  remember  it,  I  wonder  if  you 
can  give  me  Godf rey  Levett's  new  address  ?"  There  was 
a  momentary  stiffening  in  Rachel's  manner,  and  Margot 
wondered  whether  that  long-established  friendship  were 
also  beginning  to  wear  thin. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  him  yesterday,  as  it  happens," 
Rachel  replied,  "but  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  remember 
the  address.  I'll  look  it  up  for  you,  though,  and  send 
it  to  you  to-morrow  morning.  I  won't  forget.  Good- 
night, darling.  I  am  so  glad  you've  been  amused!" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

RACHEL  did  not  forget  her  promise.  She  looked  up 
Levett's  address  and  reported  it  to  Margot's  maid  over 
the  telephone.  It  was  one  of  Margot's  small  "swanks" 
that  she  hardly  ever  used  this  instrument  herself. 
Ernestine  was  always  deputed  to  do  the  hanging  on 
and  to  wait  the  "One  moment,  please."  The  address 
was  1 80  Soho  Square,  of  all  strange  addresses.  Levett 
had  a  flat  there,  apparently — great  Queen  Anne  rooms 
with  painted  ceilings  and  elaborate  chimney-pieces — 
rooms  in  which  his  pictures  would  be  displayed  to  the 
finest  advantage.  Margot  could  easily  imagine  them. 
The  walls  of  the  whole  flat  would  be  equally  divided 
between  books  and  pictures.  The  carpets  would  be  very 
thick,  the  chairs  very  deep.  An  air  of  almost  tangible 
comfort  would  brood  over  the  entire  establishment.  She 
remembered  how  Levett  had  always  possessed  the  art 
of  comfort.  It  was  an  art  which  seemed  to  give  him  an 
imperviousness  that  was  like  a  challenge:  it  made  him 
so  independent  of  her  sex.  A  woman  could  never  hope 
to  add  anything  (except  her  mere  presence)  to  the  charm 
of  his  surroundings.  With  so  many  men,  all  kinds  of 
small  details  connected  with  their  life  displayed  at  once 
the  fact  that  they  needed  a  woman  to  show  them  how  to 
live,  what  to  spend  their  money  on,  and  the  kind  of  ties 
to  refrain  from  wearing.  But  Godfrey  Levett's  mock- 
ing eye  had  always  made  her  feel  that  in  some  way,  in 
her  clothes  or  manner,  she  had  committed  a  faint  indis- 
cretion of  taste,  that  she  was  subtly  "all  wrong"  in  a 
sense  clearly  visible  to  his  eyes,  though  perhaps  (fortu- 
nately!) not  to  other  people's.  No  doubt  it  was  this 

234 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  235 

quality  in  him  which  had  made  her  unable  to  forget 
him.  She  had  never  been  able,  by  the  help  of  her  sex 
and  of  her  beauty,  to  throw  dust  in  his  eyes  as  she  had 
been  able  to  throw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  almost  all  the 
other  men  with  whom  she  had  come  in  contact.  He  had 
always  appraised  her,  if  anything,  at  rather  below  her 
-proper  value.  .  .  . 

The  idea  of  seeing  him  again  began  gradually  to  occupy 
her  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else.  She  was 
excited  at  the  thought  of  asking  him  what  changes  he 
noticed  in  her  since  her  marriage,  of  finding  out  from 
him  whether  he  approved  of  her  clothes,  of  her  "mental 
development."  She  felt  more  able  now  to  meet  him  on 
his  own  ground  than  she  had  been  before  her  marriage. 
She  probably  knew  as  much  about  London  and  Paris 
and  about  the  "World"  as  he  did.  Then  she  remem- 
bered that  the  "World,"  with  a  capital  letter,  had  never 
really  interested  him.  "Moi,  J'aime  le  monde  entler," 
he  had  once  remarked  to  emphasise  this  point.  He  was 
very  proud  of  the  catholicity  of  his  interests,  his  breadth 
of  view.  .  .  . 

On  the  day  he  came  to  tea,  as  luck  would  have  it, 
Vernon  was  at  home.  For  some  reason  best  known  to 
himself  Vernon  liked  meeting  writers  and  artists.  It 
was  one  of  the  most  tiresome  (because  most  insincere) 
things  about  him,  that  he  affected  to  despise  the  men 
of  his  own  type  and  to  admire  those  who  belonged  to  a 
world  to  which  he  was  a  stranger.  It  was  part  of  his 
mania  for  having  the  entree  everywhere.  He  liked  to 
feel  that  he  could  hold  his  own  in  "intellectual"  circles 
and  among  writers  and  painters;  that  he  would  be  wel- 
comed by  them  with  open  arms  if  ever  he  should  honour 
them  by  his  presence.  He  had  the  saving  grace  to 
realise  that  the  world  contained  many  things  besides 


236  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

those  for  which  he  himself  happened  to  stand,  but  he 
did  not  realize  his  own  limitations  nor  the  precautions 
which  Nature  had  taken  to  prevent  him  from  straying 
out  of  his  appointed  groove. 

Vernon  had  shown  himself  so  "tiresome"  after  her 
dinner  with  Rachel  that  Margot  felt  it  wise  to  humour 
him  about  Godfrey.  In  the  agony  which  his  love  for 
her  caused  him  on  frequent  occasions,  she  was  only  able 
to  perceive  an  acute  irritation  which  required  "soothing." 
Since  she  had  never  loved,  love's  woes  were  things 
which  she  could  neither  sympathise  with  nor  under- 
stand. 

Levett  seemed  to  have  changed  almost  as  much  as 
she  had  herself.  He  had  been  in  Italy,  in  France,  and 
then  in  Spain,  he  said,  during  the  past  two  years,  and 
was  glad  to  be  back  again  in  London  among  his  friends. 
He  loved  loneliness  in  foreign  countries,  but  too  much 
of  it  palled  after  a  while.  The  conversation  was  desul- 
tory and  rather  boring,  but  at  moments  she  caught  a 
stray  gleam  of  interest  in  Godfrey's  eyes  which  gratified 
her  vanity ;  and  once  or  twice  he  smiled,  for  her  alone. 
He  did  not  outstay  the  conventional  twenty  minutes,  and 
when  he  rose  to  go,  something  titillated  Margot's  sense 
of  humour  as  she  heard  herself,  with  Vernon  making  a 
kind  of  chorus  in  the  background,  saying,  "You  must 
come  and  have  dinner  with  us  one  evening!"  Their 
next  meeting  had  already  been  arranged  during  a  dis- 
cussion about  a  picture  show  which  had  just  been  opened 
at  the  Cork  Street  Galleries.  .  .  . 

Godfrey  Levett  realised  perfectly  that  Margot's  casual, 
"We  must  go  together  one  day  soon,"  was  not  one  of 
the  vague  suggestions  made  out  of  politeness  and  never 
intended  to  materialise.  He  was  not  surprised  to  get  a 
note  from  her  on  the  following  day  asking  him  if  he 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  237 

would  take  her  to  the  Cork  Street  Galleries  on  the  coming 
Monday  afternoon.  He  admired  success  in  any  direc- 
tion or  branch  of  human  endeavour,  and  Margot's  com- 
plete realisation  of  her  ideals  and  desires  delighted  him. 
It  was  a  success  which  he  had  himself  prophesied,  and 
this  fact  gave  her  an  added  interest  in  his  eyes.  He 
liked  to  feel  that  he  had  understood  her  so  well,  ap- 
praised her  so  justly. 

The  exhibition  which  had  just  been  opened  was  a  loan 
collection  of  Old  Masters  containing  a  curious  medley  of 
pictures,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent.  Some  rather  im- 
portant El  Grecos  were  what  chiefly  interested  Levett, 
since  he  had  only  recently  returned  from  Toledo.  He 
pointed  out  to  Margot  the  strange  note  of  occultism 
which  pervades  so  many  of  El  Grecos'  pictures,  how  the 
painter  was  obsessed  by  the  inner  significance  of  his 
subjects,  and  seemed  to  see  things  not  visible  to  ordinary 
eyes.  "He  has  an  almost  harsh  individuality,  as  though 
his  soul  were  battling  to  express  itself  and  his  brain  and 
hands  were  not  quite  equal  to  the  task  of  putting  down 
the  message  on  the  canvas.  That  would  account  for  his 
occasional  awkwardness  and  ugliness,  as  well  as  for  his 
inspiration.  He  must  have  been  a  mystic — a  kind  of 
sixteenth-century  Blake." 

Margot  listened  to  Godfrey  with  attention.  During  her 
three  London  seasons  she  had  been  to  so  many  picture 
shows  and  had  been  forced  to  join  in  so  many  conversa- 
tions about  pictures  that  she  had  all  the  necessary  jargon 
at  the  end  of  her  tongue.  She  had  a  natural  gift  for 
making  a  smattering  of  information  go  a  long  way  and  a 
good  head  for  proper  names,  so  that  she  was  often  able 
to  appear  quite  erudite.  When  Levett  talked  about  pic- 
tures, however,  she  grasped  that  they  were  something 
more  than  just  things  about  which,  at  the  decree  of 


238  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

fashion,  it  happened  to  be  impossible  to  express  ignor- 
ance or  indifference.  She  realised  dimly  that  art  could 
be  an  intoxication,  that  pictures,  like  music,  could 
supply  a  thrill  to  the  soul;  this  glimpse  of  the  truth 
which  came  to  her  as  she  listened  to  him  increased  her 
dissatisfaction  with  the  people  among  whom,  since  her 
marriage,  she  had  lived.  Even  dears  like  Vivie  Nugent 
were  utterly  empty;  there  simply  wasn't  anything  in 
them!  Mr.  Falkenheim,  in  those  far-off  days  in  Paris 
and  in  Richbourne  Terrace,  had  done  something  to  edu- 
cate her  appreciations.  But  his  point  of  view  had  not 
been  quite  the  same  as  Levett's;  she  had  always  been 
aware,  intuitively,  that  he  could  never  look  at  a  painting 
without  being  conscious  of  its  cash  value.  The  enthusi- 
asm was  there,  but  it  was  not,  as  in  Godfrey's  case,  per- 
fectly "pure." 

They  stopped  before  a  characteristic  picture  of  St. 
Paul  by  the  Cretan.  "That  isn't  my  idea  of  St.  Paul," 
she  said.  "That  man  there,  with  his  pointed  brown 
beard  and  his  thin  arched  nose,  is  simply  a  Spanish  noble- 
man. He  isn't  St.  Paul  at  all.  St.  Paul  was  some  old 
Jew,  with  thick  lips  and  a  beard." 

Godfrey  disagreed  with  her,  and  they  argued  as  to 
whether  St.  Paul  might  or  might  not  have  been  hand- 
some. Certainly  he  must  at  one  time  have  been  young. 
"To  my  mind,"  said  Levett,  "all  the  character  in  that 
portrait  is  in  the  eyes.  In  those  eyes  you  can  read  the 
whole  story  of  the  'conversion';  they  are  the  eyes  of  a 
man  who  has  seen  a  vision." 

The  El  Grecos  were  beginning  to  get  on  Margot's 
nerves.  She  found  the  earth  more  comfortable,  and  went 
across  to  look  at  a  "Venus"  by  Lucas  Cranach.  The 
face  was  like  the  face  of  some  nameless  animal,  the  low 
forehead  suggested  a  serpent.  Round  the  neck  she  wore 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  239 

a  necklace  of  jewels,  and  in  her  hands  held  a  trans- 
parent silk  veil,  as  though  to  emphasise  her  nudity. 
There  was  something  evil,  something  macabre,  about 
this  picture;  and  the  same  sinister  spirit  was  noticeable 
in  a  picture  by  Hans  Baldung  Grein,  called  "La  Volupte 
et  la  Mort,"  which  hung  by  its  side.  "I  didn't  know 
they  had  any  decadents  in  the  fifteenth  century." 
Margot  said,  looking  at  the  painters'  dates,  which  were 
given  in  the  catalogue.  "That  Venus  is  far  more  wicked 
than  anything  of  Beardsley's.  She  might  as  well  be 
dressed  in  an  ankle-watch  or  a  man's  top  hat.  Those 
jewels  make  her  look  just  as  naked  .  .  .  and  even 
Beardsley  didn't  play  such  tricks  with  our  anatomy !" 

They  went  into  the  larger  room,  where  there  were 
several  paintings  by  Frederigo  Barocci,  a  painter  of  the 
School  of  Correggio,  whose  work  was  almost  unknown  to 
Levett.  Both  he  and  Margot  were  enchanted  by  his 
naive  Madonnas  and  Annunciations.  There  was  some- 
thing modern  and  tender  about  them,  something  gay 
and  fresh.  The  painter  was  evidently  an  observer  and  a 
realist.  He  had  noted  the  types  in  his  native  Urbino, 
and  rendered  them  with  simplicity  and  with  a  charm 
that  was  perhaps  a  trifle  too  honeyed  for  modern  taste. 

There  were  a  number  of  other  Italian  pictures  in  the 
room — of  the  kind  without  which  no  Georgian  mansion 
was  considered  complete.  There  were  also  six  or  seven 
Reynolds's  portraits — sent  up,  the  family  treasure,  from 
little  country  houses  inhabited  by  maiden  ladies — and 
some  Romneys  and  Hoppners,  which  made  the  boom  in 
these  painters  seem  difficult  to  understand  or  to  excuse. 
In  the  further  room  they  admired  a  masterly  Cuyp ;  two 
Goyas — portraits  of  Spanish  ladies  with  black  eyes, 
mantillas,  shadowed  upper  lips,  and  fat  hands  adorned 


240  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

with  wings — a  Botticelli  of  great  beauty  but  doubtful 
authenticity ;  some  Bellinis  and  an  exquisite  Carpaccio. 

"Do  you  remember  the  Goyas  we  looked  at  together 
in  the  Rue  Laffitte?"  Godfrey  asked  Margot  with  a  smile. 
She  glanced  at  him  intently. 

"Don't  I !"  she  replied. 

"No  one  can  say  that  these  exhibitions  are  not  varied," 
Godfrey  went  on,  changing  the  subject.  "They  are  so 
varied  that  they  are  rather  tiring.  They  open  up  so 
many  different  avenues  of  thought  and  interest  at  the 
same  time." 

"Let  us  go,  then,"  Margot  replied.  "I'm  absolutely 
exhausted.  I  want  to  see  you  and  your  new  flat.  You 
don't  propose  giving  me  tea  in  a  tea-shop,  I  hope?" 

"Yes,  I  did,"  said  Levett.  "I  was  searching  in  my 
head  for  the  name  of  some  really  nice  tea-shop.  No  one 
ever  comes  to  tea  in  my  flats!  I  told  you  when  you 
came  to  Holland  Street  that  you  were  the  only  female 
who  had  ever  intruded  into  the  sacred  precincts !" 

"That  was  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  liked  coming.  I 
don't  want  my  tea  in  a  tea-shop,  so  there!" 

"Well,  I  won't  answer  for  the  kind  of  tea  you'll  get !" 
said  Godfrey,  laughing.  "And  you  will  have  to  let  me 
show  off  my  Spanish  cabinet.  I  bought  it  in  Seville  for 
one  hundred  and  fifty  pesetas — the  most  wonderful  piece 
of  carving  I've  ever  set  eyes  on,  even  in  Spain !" 

Levett's  flat  consisted  of  the  two  top  floors  of  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  houses  in  Soho  Square.  The 
sitting-room,  on  the  lower  of  the  two  floors,  stretched 
the  whole  width  of  the  house.  Here  he  had  hung  the 
eighteenth-century  pictures  to  which  he  was  most 
attached,  while  his  Spanish  cabinet,  alone  in  its  glory, 
stood  against  the  wall  at  the  end,  opposite  the  elaborate 
marble  chimney-piece.  Margot  insisted  on  exploring  the 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  241 

entire  flat — she  found  herself  instinctively  looking  for 
traces  of  an  amie,  and  was  baffled  when  she  discovered 
none — and  her  admiration  and  delight  were  obviously 
genuine.  "I  think  it's  thoroughly  selfish  of  you  to  keep 
such  a  lovely  place  hidden  from  your  friends." 

"It  depends  on  the  friends.  You  have  penetrated, 
you  see.  But  that  is  no  reason  why  others  should." 

"Godfrey,  you  are  trying  to  flirt  with  me!"  said 
Margot  sternly.  They  both  laughed  gaily;  but  Margot 
wondered  whether  he  remembered  their  last  meeting 
before  her  marriage — whether  her  remark  had  made  him 
think  of  it,  and  what  his  thoughts  would  be. 

"Well,  Godfrey,  so  here  I  am,  safely  married,  as  you 
prophesied,"  she  said,  taking  a  puff  at  a  cigarette  which 
he  had  given  her.  Their  relations  seemed  suddenly,  for 
no  tangible  reason,  to  have  taken  on  an  air  of  intimacy 
during  the  last  few  moments.  The  comfort  of  the  room 
and  the  gentle  breeze  which  blew  in  from  the  square 
across  the  window-boxes  full  of  geraniums  seemed  to  be 
inviting  confidences.  The  curious  smell  of  the  geraniums 
reminded  Margot  of  the  window-boxes  at  Richbourne 
Terrace  when  she  had  first  come  to  London.  She 
thought  of  an  evening  when  Israel  Falkenheim  had 
showed  her  his  Largillieres,  when  she  had  gone  out  on 
the  balcony  for  a  few  minutes  to  look  at  the  stars  and 
had  caught  the  thrilling  sounds  of  violins  playing  dance 
music.  She  had  danced  to  that  music  ever  since ! 

"I've  changed  a  good  deal,  haven't  I?"  she  said 
reflectively. 

"No,  you  haven't  changed,"  Godfrey  replied.  "You 
have  developed,  that's  all,  developed  amazingly;  but 
you  are  still  the  same  you.  You  had  the  germ  of  what 
you  are  now  in  you  three  summers  ago.  You  remember 
how  I  spotted  it?" 


242  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember!"  said  Margot.  "And  what  is 
more,  if  you  come  to  my  dance  on  the  Fourteenth  you  shall 
have  your  quail !  .  .  .  Tell  me,"  she  changed  the  sub- 
ject abruptly,  "have  you  seen  anything  of  Israel  Falken- 
heim  lately?" 

"I  saw  him  yesterday  for  a  moment  in  the  Park.  We 
walked  a  little  way  together,  and  as  we  did  so  Frensen 
passed.  Do  you  know,  fire  seemed  literally  to  blaze 
from  both  their  eyes  as  they  looked  at  one  another.  You 
have  never  seen  anything  so  extraordinary.  ..." 

Margot  gave  Levett  an  account — slightly  modified, 
with  additions  to  include  her  "official"  story — of  the 
circumstances  which  led  to  her  departure  from  Rich- 
bourne  Terrace.  "Why  do  they  hate  one  another  so?" 
she  asked. 

Levett  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "They  are  both 
Renaissance  figures;  the  two  most  romantic  old  men  in 
London.  If  they  had  lived  three  centuries  ago  their 
retainers  would  fight  desperately  in  dark  alleys,  or  they 
would  scheme  to  poison  one  another,  or  to  murder  each 
other's  mistresses.  As  it  is,  all  they  can  do  is  to  scowl 
and  plot  financial  ruin.  The  spectacle  of  two  elderly 
gentlemen  bashing  in  each  other's  pot  hats  with  their 
umbrellas  would  be  undignified,  and  they  are  neither  of 
them  that." 

"Yes,  but  why  did  they  quarrel  ?" 

"Oh,  Frensen,  who  was  something  of  a  Don  Juan  in 
his  day,  is  supposed  to  have  taken  an  unfair  advantage 
of  Mrs.  Falkenheim  when  she  was  young  and  lovely. 
Mrs.  Falkenheim  is  supposed  to  have  told  Israel  all  about 
it  at  once,  and  to  have  begged  his  forgiveness.  He  for- 
gave her,  but  he  has  never  forgiven  Frensen.  So  you 
can  understand  why  he  could  not  forgive  you !" 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  243 

"I've  never  heard  of  anyone  hating  as  he  hates," 
Margot  remarked. 

"What  a  lover  he  would  have  made !" 

"Why?" 

"What  is  hate  except  love  turned  the  other  way? 
Israel  Falkenheim  is  a  man  for  whom  I  have  a  great 
respect.  The  present  age  is  almost  empty  of  personali- 
ties. A  man  like  Falkenheim  is  a  godsend.  He  has 
something  in  him !" 

"What  a  funny  person  you  are!  You've  forgotten 
about  me.  You  were  looking  through  me  and  talking  to 
yourself!" 

"Was  I?  Let  us  talk  about  you.  How  do  you  like 
being  a  great  lady?" 

"Oh,  I  like  it  and  I  don't.  It  dawned  on  me  last  Wed- 
nesday, when  Rachel  asked  me  to  go  with  her  to  see 
Genee  dance,  that  I  had  never  been  to  a  music-hall  be- 
fore in  my  life.  To-morrow  I  have  to  spend  the  entire 
day  at  the  Duchess  of  Stretton's  in  Berkeley  Square, 
keeping  a  stall  at  a  charity  bazaar.  Those  two  facts 
should  tell  you  all  about  it !  At  the  bazaar  I  shall  meet 
a  fat  German  princess,  who  will  probably  'take  me  up.' 
The  duchess  has  already  asked  Vernon  and  me  twice  for 
the  week-end.  She  has  also  dined  at  Charles  Street,  and 
calls  me  'my  dear'  before  the  servants.  So  there  you 
are — the  profit  and  loss  account  up  to  date!  How  it  is 
that  I  have  never  shouted  a  thoroughly  indecent  and 
unladylike  word  at  the  top  of  my  voice  at  some  refined 
gathering  I  can't  imagine.  But  I  haven't!  I  believe  it 
is  Rachel  who  is  making  me  so  discontented."  She  told 
Levett  about  her  evening  with  Rachel,  and  fancied  that 
he  looked  at  her  curiously  while  she  did  so.  However, 
he  made  no  comment  beyond  saying  that  she  too  had 
developed  during  the  last  three  years.  Then,  reverting 


244  •     MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

to  her  complaints  about  the  bazaar,  he  said:  "But  why 
do  you  allow  yourself  to  be  bored,  Margot,  if  you  have 
nothing  to  gain  from  this  bazaar?" 

"I  can't  get  out  of  it — can  I  ?" 

"Why  not?  I  should  have  thought  the  greatest 
privilege  of  your  position  lay  in  the  ability  to  do  exactly 
as  you  please;  you  are  answerable  to  nobody.  It  is 
strugglers,  the  poor,  who  have  to  consider  appearances. 
Surely  the  one  and  only  charm  of  arriving  lies  in  the 
fact  that  it  confers  liberty  of  action,  and  thus  com- 
parative immunity  from  boredom." 

Margot  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment.  Within  the 
period  of  the  past  few  days  she  had  undergone  an  internal 
revolution.  All  her  points  of  view  had  changed.  It  was 
certainly  Rachel  who  had  started  it.  She  was  no  longer 
certain  of  what  she  wanted,  and  the  fact  of  not  having 
a  definite  end  in  view  paralysed  her.  This  bazaar  had 
become  utterly  meaningless,  and  therefore  unendurable. 
The  situation  reduced  itself  down  to  this,  that  she  pre- 
ferred the  thought  of  going  to  music-halls  with  Rachel 
or  with  Godfrey,  to  see  dancers  like  Genee,  to  being  pre- 
sented to  princesses.  The  glamour  had  suddenly  fallen 
from  princesses.  She  saw  them  now  as  fat  and  bor- 
ing women  who  talked  broken  English.  She  stood,  as  it 
were,  bewildered — amid  the  dust  of  her  illusions. 

"Godfrey,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "how  can  I  get 
out  of  it?" 

"Out  of  what?" 

"That  bazaar,  of  course.  I  simply  can't  face  it;  it 
will  be  so  agonisingly  dull.  But  what  am  I  to  do?  I'm 
sharing  the  stall  with  Lady  Abchurch.  She  will  be 
frantic  if  I  don't  turn  up." 

Levett  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment.  "There  is  a 
luxurious  nursing  home  in  Belgrave  Square,"  he  said  at 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  245 

last,  "for  those  who  find  the  social  treadmill  exhausting 
to  the  nerves.  It  is  in  the  house  that  used  to  belong 
to  the  Duke  of  Taunton,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
square  to  Carl  Frensen's  house.  Sir  Harding  Broadley 
runs  it.  It  has  quite  a  vogue,  and  I  feel  sure  your 
husband  could  raise  no  objections  to  it.  Why  don't  you 
retire  there  this  evening?  I  will  send  you  an  enormous 
bouquet  of  roses!  You  can  telephone  from  here  to  see 
if  they  can  take  you.  Every  woman  can  do  with  a  few 
days'  rest  in  the  middle  of  the  season.  Now,  don't  you 
think  that  is  a  clever  idea?  You  will  be  able  to  work 
off  all  sorts  of  visits  to  tiresome  relations  too.  Instead 
of  having  to  fag  round  to  see  them,  you  can  now  make 
them  come  to  see  you  and  get  the  nurse  to  dismiss 
them  at  the  end  of  ten  minutes !" 

"Godfrey,  you  are  a  genius !"  said  Margot.  "How  do 
you  think  of  these  things?" 

"Sheer  interest  in  the  art  of  life,"  Levett  replied, 
laughing. 

Margot,  whose  motto  was  invariably  "do  it  now,"  went 
to  the  telephone  and  rang  up  Sir  Harding  Broadley.  The 
arrangements  were  astonishingly  easy  to  make.  The 
nursing  home  was  as  delighted  to  receive  her  as  she  was 
to  retire  to  it. 

"I  must  go  and  pack.  I  have  enjoyed  my  afternoon." 
She  looked  into  his  mocking  grey  eyes  and  wished  she 
could  disturb  their  detachment  and  tranquillity.  Any 
other  man  would  be  a  little  sentimental  at  this  juncture ; 
and  she  remembered  the  way  he  had  kissed  her  before 
her  marriage.  What  would  she  do  if  he  tried  to  kiss  her 
again?  She  felt  vaguely  annoyed  with  him  for  not 
deciding  this  point  for  her  by  making  the  attempt. 

"I  wonder  why  you  have  never  married.  You  ought 
to!" 


246  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

"What  has  the  race  of  women  done  to  deserve  that 
favour?"  Levett  replied  derisively.  "I  am,  as  you  see, 
comfortable.  I  am  free  to  come  and  go  as  I  please,  and 
I  am  free  to  love  without  spoiling  the  romance  by 
domesticity.  Of  course,  if  some  goddess  were  to  come 
to  me  and  ask  my  advice  as  to  how  she  should  dispose 
of  herself  and  of  her  millions,  I  might  reconsider  things. 
My  income,  though  almost  enough  for  one,  is  not  quite 
adequate  to  my  imagination ;  but  otherwise " 

"I  should  think  you  would  make  a  woman  who  loved 
you  die  of  mortification !" 

"Ah,  love!  Love  is  so  rare  and  the  market  is  so 
overstocked  with  forgeries !  Friendship  and  passion  are 
safer,  and  one  can  enjoy  both  without  putting  one's  head 
in  the  noose.  Marriage  as  an  institution  is  arranged 
exclusively  for  the  benefit  of  the  female  sex  I" 

"You  are  a  shy  bird,  Godfrey.  And  you  are  not  so 
much  to  look  at  either!  And  you  are  frightfully  vain! 
I  should  have  thought  some  little  flattering  fool  would 
have  caught  you  that  way." 

"I  know  I'm  vain.  But  don't  you  give  me  credit  for 
having  a  few  gleams  of  humour?  It's  a  protection." 

"I  must  go  off  to  my  nursing  home  now,"  said  Margot. 
"Be  sure  to  come  and  have  tea  with  me  there  to-morrow 
afternoon." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  episode  of  the  nursing  home  marked  a  definite 
stage  in  Margot's  career.  She  had  been  amazed  at  the 
ease  with  which  the  whole  business  had  been  worked. 
The  duchess  had  been  charming.  A  bouquet  of  white 
roses  accompanying  a  letter  of  regret  had  come  to  her 
from  Berkeley  Square,  while  Cynthia  had  called  and  told 
her  all  about  the  bazaar  which  she  had  been  so  successful 
in  avoiding.  "Lady  Abchurch  was  as  sick  as  a  dog 
when  she  heard  you  couldn't  turn  up,"  Lady  Cynthia 
remarked.  "She  had  only  intended  to  be  there  for  an 
hour  in  the  afternoon;  but  as  it  was,  she  had  to  be  on 
duty  all  day!"  This  item  of  information  gave  Margot 
intense  satisfaction,  and  she  retailed  it  to  Levett  with 
a  chuckle  when,  half  an  hour  later,  he  paid  his  promised 
visit. 

"The  first  fruits  of  emancipation !"  he  said,  laughing. 
"London  has  caught  a  Tartar  in  you,  I  can  see!"  She 
watched  his  keen  grey  eyes  resting  on  her  as  he  lay  back 
comfortably  in  the  armchair.  His  regard  seemed  to  be 
kinder,  more  affectionate  than  usual;  but  the  fire  she 
longed  to  see  blazing  in  his  glance  was  still  unlit.  But 
he  liked  her,  that  she  knew,  and  this  very  "liking"  was 
in  itself  a  challenge.  .  .  . 

Among  the  most  assiduous  of  Margot's  visitors  during 
her  stay  at  Sir  Harding  Broadley's  nursing  home — not 
counting  Vernon,  who  was  in  attendance  daily — was  Sir 
Carl  Frensen.  He  used  often  to  come  over  from  his 
house  on  the  other  side  of  the  square  to  see  her.  He 
came  on  the  afternoon  before  her  departure,  his  visit 

247 


248  MARGOT' S  PROGRESS 

just  coinciding  with  the  end  of  Vernon's,  whom  he  passed 
on  the  doorstep. 

"Well,  Margot,"  he  said,  settling  himself  in  the  arm- 
chair. "I  shall  miss  you  when  you  go  away  from  Bel- 
grave  Square!"  His  insolent  red  eyes  examined  her  as 
she  lay  in  bed,  dressed  in  a  Japanese  silk  dressing-gown 
and  propped  up  by  pillows,  with  her  pale  gold  hair 
framing  her  vivid  face.  With  a  bowl  of  white  roses  on 
the  table  by  her  side,  she  made  a  picture  that  would 
have  charmed  any  eye,  male  or  female.  "You  certainly 
look  your  best  in  bed,  my  dear,"  Sir  Carl  remarked.  "I 
believe  that  someone  once  said  that  the  three  most  beau- 
tiful sights  in  the  world  were  a  woman  in  bed,  a  priest 
at  the  altar,  and  a  thief  on  the  gallows." 

"I  don't  know  about  thieves  on  gallowses,"  said 
Margot,  laughing.  "Just  think  of  all  your  city  pals 
strung  up  in  a  row,  toes  out,  their  top  hats  falling  over 
their  Hebraic  noses!  I  wouldn't  call  it  exactly  a 
beautiful  sight,  though  of  course  it  would  do  the  world 
a  great  deal  of  good." 

Sir  Carl  chuckled  wheezily  as  he  watched  Margot.  He 
adored  her  impertinence,  and  her  gibing  attacks  were 
the  secret  of  her  hold  over  him.  He  would  have  enjoyed 
being  hit  over  the  head  by  her  with  an  umbrella  or 
having  his  ears  boxed. 

"What  an  important  person  you  are  become  now,"  he 
said.  "I  read  in  the  paper  the  other  day  all  about  your 
regretted  absence  from  the  Duchess  of  Stretton's  bazaar. 
You  are  finding  matrimony  a  success,  eh?" 

"Success!"  flashed  Margot.  "Well,  yes!  I  suppose 
it  is,"  she  went  on,  listlessly,  leaning  her  head  back  on 
the  pillows.  "But  if  I  had  a  fortune  of  my  own  I 
might  feel  tempted  to  chuck  it.  Vernon  does  his  best, 
of  course.  ..." 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  249 

"But  respectability  palls!  What  did  I  tell  you?  If 
you  had  listened  to  me  you  would  have  had  your  fortune 
and  you  would  have  been  a  free  woman !" 

"Ah,  how  am  I  to  know  that?"  said  Margot,  laugh- 
ing. "After  all,  you  let  me  down  good  and  proper  with 
the  Falkenheims.  If  I  hadn't  scrambled  out  of  that 
mess  with  my  own  claws,  where  should  I  have 
been?" 

Carl  Frensen's  face  darkened.  "No,  you  are  quite 
right  there,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  treat  you  fairly.  But 
I'll  make  it  up  to  you  yet,  you  see  if  I  don't.  I'll  make 
it  up  to  you,  you  pretty  cat !" 

They  exchanged  glances,  and  the  look  of  amusement 
came  back  into  the  old  man's  face.  He  looked  at  her 
in  the  same  way  as  he  looked  at  his  beautiful  Persian, 
Drusilla.  The  more  she  scratched  him  and  bit  him,  the 
more  she  amused  him  and  the  more  he  liked  her.  He 
hoped  she  would  never  have  her  claws  cut. 

Margot  always  enjoyed  the  old  man's  visits.  In  her 
own  way  she  liked  him  as  well  as  she  liked  anyone  she 
knew,  with  the  exception  of  Godfrey  Levett.  He  knew 
the  world  so  well,  and  was  so  interesting.  He  was  a 
man  who  counted  for  something;  he  was  rich  in  a  way 
which  made  the  Stokes's  wealth  seem  nothing,  and  he 
was  famous — one  of  the  ablest  men  of  his  day.  She  was 
never  bored  when  she  was  with  him,  for  she  loved  to  be 
with  men  who  dominated  her  morally  and  intellectually — 
who  were  stronger  than  she  was.  The  sensation  of 
knuckling  under  she  found  on  occasions  as  delightful  as 
the  sensation  of  trampling  people  beneath  her.  How 
tired  she  was,  really,  of  snapping  at  Vernon!  Vernon 
came  to  see  her  every  morning  immediately  after  break- 
fast— to  receive  his  orders  for  the  day — and  she  delighted 
in  speaking  harshly  to  him,  particularly  in  front  of  the 


250  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

nurses.  He  would  bite  his  moustache  and  say  nothing, 
but  give  renewed  instructions  to  the  management  that 
she  was  to  be  saved  all  worry  and  that  everything  she 
wanted  was  to  be  done  for  her. 

"And  she  treats  him  like  dirt,  too,"  one  of  the  maids 
remarked  to  the  footman,  summing  up  the  situation. 
"You  should  just  'ear  the  way  she  talks  to  'im  in  the 
morning.  Vulgar  little  upstart !  If  I  was  'im  I  wouldn't 
stand  'er  airs,  that  I  wouldn't !" 

Vernon,  however,  had  no  intention  of  not  standing 
them.  If  he  had  any  such  intention  Margot  would  have 
been  the  first  to  perceive  it,  and  would  have  modified 
her  behaviour  accordingly.  After  leaving  the  nursing 
home,  she  did  indeed  treat  Vernon  rather  better  than 
usual.  She  had  always  liked  his  good  looks,  his  bronzed 
skin  and  beautiful  teeth,  and  now  that  she  had  made 
such  strides  in  the  art  of  living — thanks  to  Rachel  and 
to  Godfrey  Levett — she  had  no  one  but  herself  to  blame 
if  she  was  bored  or  irritable.  She  felt  like  a  bird  let  out 
of  its  cage  during  the  remainder  of  the  season.  By 
pleading  ill-health-»-the  rest  in  the  nursing  home  proved 
invaluable  in  this  connection — she  avoided  all  the  social 
engagements  which  were  in  the  smallest  degree  tedious, 
and  did  only  the  things  which  happened  to  amuse  her. 
It  was  a  revelation  to  her  how  different  life  became. 
Money  was,  par  excellence,  the  desirable  thing  in  life, 
now  that  she  knew  so  well  what  to  do  with  it,  and 
"position,"  with  its  accompanying  meetings  with 
duchesses  and  princesses,  took  an  altogether  secondary 
place. 

The  new  spirit  that  was  rising  up  within  her  did  not 
commend  itself  to  Vernon.  He  himself  enjoyed  being 
intentionally  rude  on  occasions,  but  he  looked  on  this 
haughtiness  as  being  a  masculine  attribute,  and  he  did 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  251 

not  like  his  wife  to  be  masculine.  The  Abchurchs  were 
Patcham's  relatives,  and  the  fact  that  Lady  Abchurch 
was  froissee  with  Margot  was,  to  say  the  least,  inconven- 
ient. She  would  have  made  such  a  good  friend,  too,  for 
Margot.  Lady  Abchurch  was  a  clever,  interesting 
woman  who  knew  the  world  and  had  considerable  politi- 
cal influence.  Some  of  Vernon's  neighbours  at  Hotham 
had  asked  him  why  he  did  not  offer  himself  as  Unionist 
candidate  for  the  division.  After  all,  one  would  have  to 
do  something,  he  reflected,  and  Lady  Abchurch  might 
have  been  useful. 

Margot's  choice  of  friends  had  always  vaguely  dis- 
pleased him  and  had  occasionally  aroused  his  jealousy. 
Beyond  her  beauty,  he  could  not  imagine  what  a  clever 
man  like  Godfrey  Levett  could  see  in  his  wife  to  make 
him  prefer  her  to  himself.  He  flattered  himself  that 
he  was  interested  in  all  the  things  in  which  Levett  was 
interested;  Margot,  on  the  other  hand,  only  cared  about 
social  frivolity.  And  then  there  was  that  poisonous  cat, 
Rachel  Elkington,  and  Carl  Frensen.  .  .  .  He  thought 
of  the  letter  from  Mr.  Falkenheim  about  his  wife,  which 
he  had  found  on  his  father's  writing-table  on  the  evening 
of  his  death.  Falkenheim,  Frensen — how  was  it  that 
Margot  came  to  be  mixed  up  with  these  alien  financiers? 
Now  that  she  had  the  chance  of  living  exclusively  among 
white  people,  why  could  she  not  drop  them?  She  had 
given  up  the  Falkenheims,  it  was  true,  but  this  man 
Frensen  was  far  worse  than  they  were.  His  thoughts 
tortured  him,  and  he  could  not  forget  the  day  when  he 
had  passed  Sir  Carl  on  the  doorstep  of  the  nursing  home, 
making  for  his  wife's  bedside.  As  he  had  very  little  to 
occupy  him,  the  thought  of  Frensen  became  an  obses- 
sion, and  he  listened  to  any  lying  nonsense  about  the 
financier  that  was  poured  into  his  ears  at  his  club  or 


252  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

in  the  houses  of  his  friends.  Several  times  he  deter- 
mined to  assert  himself,  to  forbid  Margot  to  see  Frensen 
again.  But  she  made  it  almost  impossible  for  him  to 
do  this  by  always  telling  him  about  their  meetings  and 
making  a  point  of  relating  in  great  detail  what  he  had 
said,  as  though  it  were  a  matter  of  equal  interest  to  them 
both.  She  certainly  did  not  speak  or  behave  like  a  guilty 
woman,  and  without  some  valid  excuse  for  doing  so  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  make  a  scene  or  to  try  to 
interfere  with  her  liberty.  He  did  not  want  her  to  think 
that  he  mistrusted  her;  but  he  would  have  welcomed 
an  opportunity  for  giving  her  good  advice  if  he  could 
have  managed  it  without  incurring  her  displeasure. 

Margot  certainly  had  the  knack  of  occupying  people's 
thoughts,  and  it  was  as  well  for  Vernon  that  his  educa- 
tion and  upbringing  had  given  him  an  impassive  mask 
and  facial  self-control.  Otherwise  the  spectacle  he 
would  have  presented  to  the  world,  instead  of  being 
that  of  a  slightly  mature  Adonis,  would  have  been  the 
spectacle  of  a  bewildered,  love-tortured,  and  wretched 
man,  battling,  without  guidance,  against  circumstances 
that  were  too  much  for  him.  He  was  grateful  when  the 
season  came  to  an  end  and  he  could  hurry  North  to 
shoot  grouse  amid  the  excitements  and  chatter  of  Glen- 
thorwald.  Glenthorwald  Castle,  in  Argyllshire,  was  the 
Scottish  home  of  Lord  Patcham's  parents,  who  took 
their  title  from  this  estate.  The  old  people  loved  Glen- 
thorwald, and  would  have  liked  to  live  there  nearly  the 
whole  year  round.  Their  affection  for  their  only  son, 
however,  exceeded  their  love  for  the  barren  ancestral 
acres  with  their  haunting  vistas  of  mountain  and  loch; 
and  it  was  to  please  him  more  than  for  any  other  reason 
that  they  came  to  London  in  the  summer  and  invited  to 
stay  with  them  in  August  a  "crowd  of  noisy  Londoners," 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  253 

of  whom,  for  a  good  many  years  past,  Vernon,  had 
always  been  one.  He  was  a  very  good  shot  and  quite  at 
his  best  as  one  of  a  party  in  a  big  country  house. 

Margot  had  gone  to  Glenthorwald  with  him  at  the 
end  of  their  first  year  of  married  life,  but  though  she 
loved  the  wild  scenery  and  enjoyed  the  long  days  on 
the  yacht,  cruising  among  the  intricate  waterways  and 
winding  arms  of  the  sea,  the  visit  on  the  whole  bored 
her.  She  found  her  host  and  hostess  oppressive;  and 
the  young  people  either  empty  or  absorbed  in  things 
for  which  she  cared  nothing.  This  year  she  felt  she 
could  not  face  Glenthorwald  again,  and  she  and  Vernon 
parted  company,  Margot  having  arranged  to  spend  Au- 
gust at  Deauville  with  Vivie  Nugent  and  some  other 
congenial  friends. 

Vernon  was  glad  of  the  rest  which  Glenthorwald  gave 
him;  but  in  a  very  little  while  he  was  worrying  about 
Margot,  wondering  what  mischief  she  was  getting  herself 
into  at  Deauville,  and  longing  for  September  to  come, 
when  they  would  be  together  again  at  Hotham.  He 
would  make  a  great  effort  to  win  back  his  wife,  who 
instinct,  rather  than  any  conscious  reasoning,  told  him 
was  gradually  slipping  further  and  further  away  from 
him.  Surely,  when  she  felt  herself  to  be  a  member  of 
a  big  family,  as  she  would  at  Hotham  when  his  relatives 
were  staying  there,  she  would  sober  down,  would  realise 
more  fully  her  obligations?  He  would  appeal  to  her 
good  feeling,  and  at  Hotham  she  could  hardly  fail  to 
realise  what  a  fine  position  he  had  conferred  on  her.  It 
was  to  his  wife's  realisation  of  the  side  on  which  "her 
bread  was  buttered"  that  he  pinned  all  his  hopes- 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

MARGOT  liked  Hotham,  with  reservations.  It  was 
charming  to  run  down  there  for  the  week-end,  and  it 
would  have  been  equally  delightful  to  live  there  tran- 
quilly, without  visitors.  To  spend  September  there,  en- 
tertaining her  husband's  relatives,  after  the  mad  excite- 
ments of  Deauville  spent  in  the  company  of  a  dare-devil 
like  Vivie  Nugent,  was  quite  another  matter.  She  felt 
she  needed  a  complete  rest  and  absolute  quiet,  as  though 
the  most  agreeable  thing  in  the  world  would  be  to  be 
alone  among  strangers,  or  alone  with  someone  for  whom 
she  cared — a  lover.  She  never  was  alone  now,  never  had 
been  alone — with  the  exception  of  the  ten  days  she  spent 
in  Sir  Harding  Broadley's  nursing  establishment — since 
she  had  married.  Even  when  she  and  Vernon  stayed 
in  different  houses,  she  always  seemed  to  be  in  the  midst 
of  a  chattering  crowd. 

At  Hotham  she  had  continually  to  be  up  and  doing; 
she  had  no  real  peace.  Most  of  the  work  of  super- 
intending the  household  was  taken  off  her  hands  by  Miss 
Austerley — Miss  Austereley,  as  Margot  persisted  in  call- 
ing her — who  had  filled  this  position  at  Highmere;  but 
as  Margot  had  the  instincts  of  a  good  hostess,  and  her 
husband's  mother  and  grandparents  were  paying  the 
yearly  visit,  she  found  herself  continuously  occupied. 
General  Cornewall  had  to  be  gossiped  with  when  he  was 
not  out  shooting  with  the  younger  men,  and  the  approach- 
ing meals  had  all  to  be  discussed  with  him  in  detail.  Mrs. 
Cornewall  required  someone  on  whom  to  air  her  scandal- 
ous reminiscences;  and  decency  made  it  impossible  for 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  255 

Margot  not  to  devote  herself  during  some  part  of  the  day 
to  her  mother-in-law. 

Patcham  and  Joyce,  who  had  been  prevailed  on  by 
Margot  to  come  for  a  week  to  mitigate  "the  parents," 
amused  themselves  with  ease,  since  marriage  had  not 
yet  begun  to  bore  them,  and  Margot  often  looked  rather 
enviously  in  their  direction.  The  surroundings  of  Hot- 
ham  Place  were  wilder  and  less  park-like  than  High- 
mere,  less  "poisonously  well-kept,"  as  Patcham  put  it. 
The  trees  were  old,  and  there  was  a  long,  winding  lake  in 
front  of  the  house  ending  in  a  thickly  wooded  dell  through 
which  passed  the  stream  which  fed  it.  But,  in  spite  of  its 
many  beauties,  Margot  never  came  to  have  the  affection 
for  either  the  house  or  lands  of  Hotham  which  she  had 
felt  for  Kings  worth.  Whenever  she  was  at  Hotham  she 
thought  of  Kingsworth  and  of  the  golden  August  days  she 
had  spent  there  before  she  took  her  plunge  into  matri- 
mony. She  had  seen  the  Hendersons  reasonably  often 
since  her  marriage ;  and  she  invited  them  to  motor  over 
for  dinner  and  to  spend  the  night,  in  order  to  meet 
General  and  Mrs.  Cornewall.  General  Cornewall  and 
Mary's  father  had  been  great  friends.  Margot  thought 
Adam  had  grown  sleeker  and  fatter  than  ever.  And  what 
had  happened  to  Mary?  Which  of  them  had  changed? 
Somehow  the  unvaried  repertoire  of  Mary's  interests  had 
become  strangely  tedious.  Margot  noticed  small  defects 
of  character  in  her  friend  for  the  first  time,  and  began 
to  wonder  whether,  after  all,  Mary  were  not  degenerating 
into  the  proverbial  parson's  wife  and  might  not  have 
invested  in  a  pair  of  elastic-sided  boots.  She  reproached 
herself  for  her  disloyalty,  but  she  could  not  help  being 
impatient  over  the  good  works — the  village  creche,  the 
reading-room,  and  the  rural  suffrage  meetings.  It 
seemed  now  almost  incredible  that  Mary  should  escape 


256  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

becoming  a  prig.  But  while  Alary  seemed  to  have  grown 
duller,  Adam  had  correspondingly  improved.  His  sense 
of  humour  was  mellower,  his  pomposity  better  managed. 
Margot  thought  he  must  have  exchanged  some  of  his 
bad  qualities  for  his  wife's  good  ones !  As  she  watched 
Ihem  during  dinner,  she  wondered  whether,  in  the  same 
Way,  she  would  find  that  the  glamour  had  fallen  from 
her  beloved  Kingsworth,  supposing  she  accepted  Mary's 
invitation  and  revisited  it.  To  make  impossible  anything 
so  distressing,  she  determined  to  make  some  excuse  to 
get  out  of  going.  She  cherished  the  memories  of  those 
lovely  August  days,  and  did  not  want  anything  to  tarnish 
them.  Even  Danbury,  with  his  absurd,  boyish  passion, 
had  a  charm  for  her  in  retrospect.  Alas !  he  had  grown 
into  a  very  commonplace  young  man,  and  had  just  been 
gazetted  to  a  Guard  regiment.  His  people's  place 
was  not  far  from  Hotham,  and  he  often  came  over  to 
dine  with  them.  The  sight  of  him  would  carry  her  back 
to  the  wonderful  days  when  she  was  still  on  the  threshold 
of  life,  when  none  of  her  dreams  had  been  turned  into 
realities.  How  distance  lent  them  an  enchantment! 
Did  she  regret  them?  Perhaps.  She  did  not  know. 
If  she  had  known  what  she  knew  now,  would  she  have 
married  Vernon  ?  A  year  ago  she  would  have  laughed  at 
herself  for  asking  this  question;  but  now  things  were 
different.  Marriage  had  awakened  in  her  a  hunger  for  a 
mutual  passion  such  as  she  had  never  known.  In 
making  her  a  woman  it  had  developed  in  her  a  woman's 
desires.  These  desires  were  sometimes  fierce  enough  to 
trouble  and  confuse  her  mind,  and  to  weaken  her  deter- 
mination, in  a  way  which  before  her  marriage  would  have 
been  impossible.  The  things  which  had  been  vague  before 
were  now  precise.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her,  before 
she  married  Vernon,  that  he  could  ever  have  any  object 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  257 

in  life  except  to  make  himself  useful.  But  now  she  felt 
growing  up  in  her,  particularly  when  she  was  at  Hotham, 
a  tiresome  sense  of  responsibility  which  choked  her.  The 
dead  weight  of  the  family,  of  her  position  as  Vernon's 
wife,  of  the  house  and  the  neighbours,  overpowered  her. 
She  felt  herself  hedged  in,  caged.  It  seemed  that  she 
could  not  have  both  "position"  and  liberty.  The  two 
things  were  mutually  exclusive.  The  position  to  which 
she  had  climbed  brought  with  it  duties  which  could  not 
be  shirked.  She  thought  of  Godfrey's  comfortable  travels 
in  Italy,  France,  and  Spain ;  of  his  luxurious  but  manage- 
able flat;  his  complete  freedom  to  come  and  go;  his 
indifference  towards  her  which  did  not  blind  her  to  his 
admiration;  his  critical  and  humorous  eyes.  She  found 
herself  constantly  comparing  him  with  her  husband,  com- 
paring his  spontaneity  with  Vernon's  wooden  reserve,  a 
reserve  imposed  by  a  terror  of  being  ridiculous.  Vernon 
sometimes  seemed  to  be  sick  and  ill  with  love  for  her; 
he  watched  her  day  and  night,  and  was  "deeply  hurt" 
by  the  least  thing.  His  thoughts  were  so  plainly  con- 
centrated on  her  that  she  could  often  have  screamed 
with  irritation.  But  she  sometimes  bored  Godfrey,  or 
was,  at  least,  afraid  of  doing  so.  How  much  more  excit- 
ing that  made  him !  She  could  not  imagine  Levett  ever 
becoming  tedious  as  a  companion,  and  the  memory  of 
the  time  when  he  had  kissed  her,  before  her  marriage, 
made  all  her  nerve-centres  tingle  with  excitement.  She 
was  thinking  of  him  more  intently  than  usual  one  starry 
night  towards  the  end  of  September,  when  she  was  walk- 
ing on  the  lawn  after  dinner,  on  the  arm  of  Vernon's 
grandfather.  As  she  looked  at  the  blackness  of  the  trees 
in  the  shadow  cast  by  the  moonlight,  at  the  yellow  glow 
streaming  out  from  the  windows  of  the  house,  she  re- 
flected that  if  she  were  only  clutching  Godfrey's  arm  he 


258  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

would  lead  her  away  till  they  were  both  swallowed  up  in 
the  starlit  mystery  of  the  night.  And  he  would  be  fierce 
and  masterful  with  her;  and  oh,  the  joy  that  it  would  be 
to  submit ! 

"Won't  you  catch  cold,  my  dear?"  Mrs.  Cornewall 
called  out  to  her  from  the  drawing-room  window.  She 
had  looked  at  her  husband  first,  but  he  was — as  usual — 
well  wrapped  up  in  his  woolen  muffler.  There  was  some- 
thing in  Mrs.  Cornewall's  voice  which  suggested  a 
quavering  senility,  and  made  Margot  furious.  Her 
thoughts  had  just  gone  on  such  a  thrilling  voyage!  She 
agreed  that  it  was  cold,  and  took  the  General  back  into 
the  saloon  and,  in  desperation,  started  a  game  of 
auction  bridge  with  Patcham,  Joyce,  and  Lady  Stokes. 
Joyce  and  Patcham  were  at  least  young,  and  their 
laughter  was  infectious.  Margot  felt  a  resentment 
against  old  women.  They  were  such  ties.  If  one  liked 
them  one  had  to  do  things  for  them — to  upset  oneself. 
Old  men,  of  course,  were  different.  She  was  heartily 
glad  she  would  only  have  to  endure  the  parents  for 
another  two  days.  They  were  returning  to  Clevedon  at 
the  end  of  the  week,  and  then  they  would  be  done  with 
until  next  year — if  they  lived  another  year!  It  would  be 
a  relief  to  be  rid  of  them,  though  she  would  miss  the 
General,  for  whom  she  had  a  sincere  affection.  Her  mood 
changed,  and  she  began  to  reflect  what  a  kind  and 
tolerant  and  amusing  old  couple  the  Cornewalls  were. 
If  only  Vernon  had  as  much  sense  as  his  grandad,  how 
very  much  easier  he  would  be  to  live  with !  She  gave  up 
playing  cards  after  the  end  of  the  second  rubber  and 
went  into  the  library  to  talk  to  the  General  about  the 
dinner  for  to-morrow  night.  She  found  the  old  man, 
with  spectacles  on  nose,  reading  an  American  cookery 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  259 

book  called  "1001  Salads,  with  a  Chapter  on  Hors 
d'CEuvres."  He  looked  serious  and  absorbed. 

"You  know,  Margot,"  he  roared,  looking  up  at  her, 
"your  cook  does  not  understand  hors  d'oeuvres  in  the 
least!  Those  anchovies  to-night  were  poor,  and  you 
had  the  wrong  kind  of  olives,  and  I've  never  seen  a 
good  salade  russe  at  your  table.  You  must  come  out 
shopping  with  me  one  day.  I  always  buy  cheap  and  I 
always  buy  good.  You  ask  Perkins,  my  fishmonger!" 

Margot  smiled,  thinking  of  Vernon's  story  of  the  old 
man  lifting  a  turbot  from  its  slab  in  Perkins's  shop  and 
sticking  his  thumb  into  it  to  see  if  it  were  tender. 

General  Cornewall  loved  his  granddaughter-in-law  for 
the  little  attentions  she  showed  him.  Margot  was 
always  perfectly  reckless  with  the  wine  cellar  during 
his  visits,  sending  for  the  finest  and  rarest  ports  and 
sherries  which  had  been  laid  down  by  Vernon's  father, 
for  him  to  taste  and  appraise.  Often  he  would  reject 
them  with  scorn,  telling  Vernon  that  such  stuff  ought 
to  be  put  down  the  sink.  Sir  William  had  been  no 
judge  of  wine  himself,  and  had  often  been  badly 
advised. 

"Never  could  cure  your  father  of  buying  his  wine  at 
Markillie  and  Johnson's,  Vernon,"  General  Cornewall 
would  roar.  "If  he  had  only  listened  to  me  he  would 
never  have  been  landed  with  stuff  like  this!" 

When  he  was  not  out  with  the  guns  or  pottering  about 
the  estate,  the  old  man  would  sit  at  his  writing-table  for 
hours,  sending  small  doles  to  indigent  gentlewomen  for 
whom  he  entertained  feelings  of  paternal  affection.  He 
collected  odd  lots  of  penny  stamps  and  postal  orders 
for  small  sums,  and  filled  his  pockets  with  them,  so 
that  when  he  came  to  write  his  letters  he  had  something 
to  slip  into  each  letter.  And  he  was  never  happy,  even 


260  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

when  away  from  home,  unless  he  could  be  giving  orders 
to  his  favourite  grocer,  cake-maker,  or  wine  merchant. 
He  would  send  postal  cards  ordering  a  bottle  of  port  to  be 
sent  to  one  friend,  two  tubs  of  extra  special  anchovies 
to  another,  a  ginger-bread  cake,  made  according  to  a 
unique  recipe  by  a  small  pastry-cook  at  Wigan,  to  a  third. 
While  the  General  occupied  himself  in  ministering  to 
the  stomachs  of  his  needy  protegees,  his  wife  or  Vernon's 
mother  would  accompany  Margot  on  a  round  of  village 
calls.  The  villagers  of  Hotham  all  adored  Mrs.  Corne- 
wall  and  her  daughter ;  they  regarded  Margot  with  polite- 
ness, but  without  enthusiasm.  She  realised  how  it 
would  take  her  years  to  get  to  know  them  as  her  mother- 
in-law,  for  instance,  knew  them.  And  even  then  it 
would  not  be  the  same.  She  would  never  like  these 
Hotham  people  as  she  had  liked  the  villagers  at  Kings- 
worth.  They  did  not  seem  to  have  the  same  touch  of 
fineness  which  she  had  noted  in  people  like  John  Vile  and 
Mrs.  Holden  and  the  enchanting  Rosie.  They  were  too 
greedy,  too  independent  and  cunning  to  please  her.  But 
her  mother-in-law  and  Mrs.  Cornewall  were  familiar  with 
them  and  liked  them.  The  villagers  in  whom  Margot 
was  most  interested  were  a  family  of  bad  gipsies  called 
Lee,  who  lived  in  a  tumble-down  cottage  overlooking  a 
deserted  sand-pit.  It  was  not  a  specially  old  cottage, 
but  had  been  built  at  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth 
century  by  General  Cornewall's  father,  for  the  overseer 
of  some  works  which  had  proved  unsuccessful.  The 
ruined  brick  walls  of  the  factory  were  still  standing,  and 
inside  them  some  rusty  ironwork  could  be  seen  amid  the 
stinging  nettles  and  rank  weeds.  The  Lee  family  had 
"squatted"  in  this  cottage  ever  since  the  works  had 
been  abandoned,  and  had  never  paid  any  rent.  They 
were  not  real  gipsies,  or  they  could  not  have  lived  under 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  261 

a  roof,  but  they  were  a  strange,  swarthy  race  with  white 
teeth  and  black  eyes,  noted  for  their  wickedness.  The 
men  wore  corduroys  and  thick  leather  belts,  and  they 
were  known  to  carry  knives.  The  family  consisted  of  a 
father  and  mother,  eight  sons,  and  one  lovely  daughter 
of  eighteen.  Mrs.  Cornewall  went  to  visit  them  with 
Margot  on  the  afternoon  before  her  return  to  Clevedon, 
and  on  their  way  she  told  Margot  how  John  Lee,  the 
grandfather  of  these  boys,  had  once  caught  hold  of  her 
in  the  north  wood  at  Hotham,  when  she  was  picking 
wood  anemones  there  as  a  little  girl,  and  had  kissed 
her,  and  how  he  had  laughed  at  her  with  his  white  teeth 
as  she  fled  screaming.  She  had  run  away,  but  she  had 
never  told  anyone  about  it  because  he  was  so  handsome. 
"And  are  they  not  splendid  men,  his  grandsons?"  she 
said.  When  they  reached  the  cottage  they  noticed  two 
of  the  sons  lurking  slyly  on  the  outskirts  of  the  wood 
at  the  back  of  the  house,  while  they  waited  for  Mrs. 
Lee  to  open  the  door.  "They  are  like  beautiful  animals, 
do  you  see?"  said  Mrs.  Cornewall,  her  old  eyes  bright 
with  interest  and  amusement.  "Look  at  their  thick 
necks  rising  like  pillars  out  of  their  broad  chests.  And 
watch  the  way  their  muscles  ripple  when  they  bend  their 
bodies.  That  is  Jim  over  there,  the  one  who  is  sawing 
the  log.  He  reminds  me  of  a  leopard,  and  the  whole 
family  are  like  splendid  wild  beasts!  Vernon  had  to 
give  Jim  two  months  at  the  Quarter  Sessions  for  knifing 
a  man  down  in  the  village.  And  they  are  dreadful 
thieves.  For  three  generations  they  have  lived  by  steal- 
ing. There  is  a  tradition  that  our  family  is  always 
lenient  to  these  handsome  blackguards;  but  Vernon  had 
to  break  it  at  last,  and  I  expect  Jim  was  very 
angry!" 

Margot  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  gipsy  as  one 


262  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

looks  at  some  dangerous  but  impotent  monarch  of  the 
jungle  at  the  Zoo,  wondering  what  further  evil  he  would 
accomplish  if  he  got  the  chance. 

At  dinner  Margot  referred  to  the  gipsies,  affecting  to 
make  light  of  their  villainies.  But  Vernon  seemed  to 
regard  them  as  dangerous  people,  while  Danbury,  who 
had  motored  over  that  evening,  agreed  with  him.  As 
Danbury  and  Vernon  exchanged  cryptic  remarks  about 
the  Lees,  Margot  felt  rather  annoyed.  They  made  her 
feel  an  outsider.  There  was  a  kind  of  freemasonry 
between  these  Somerset  people;  they  were  secretive 
even  about  their  villains. 

"But  what  is  it  the  Lees  could  do,  Danbury?"  Margot 
asked.  "There  is  never  any  crime  about  here,  surely, 
excepting  a  little  thieving  now  and  then.  ..." 

"Oh,  Somerset  is  a  great  county  for  murders; 
didn't  you  know  that?"  Danbury  replied.  "There  are 
many  odd,  wild  folk  in  Somerset.  In  certain  parts  of 
the  county  the  vendetta  flourishes  almost  as  successfully 
as  in  Albania!  There  are  a  good  many  families  like 
your  Lees — we  have  one  in  our  village.  They  are  nasty 
folk.  And  there  was  a  family  of  gipsies  that  I  never 
liked  the  look  of,  in  Minsterham — where  poor  old  Captain 
Walters  and  his  wife  were  shot  a  couple  of  years  ago. 
No  one  ever  discovered  who  the  murderer  was.  ..." 
The  conversation  could  not  be  shifted  from  the  un- 
pleasant topic,  and  everyone  had  something  to  say  about 
Captain  Walters.  Mrs.  Cornewall  remarked  en  passant 
that  his  wife  was  "an  interfering  cat  who  deserved  to 
have  her  neck  wrung" — she  had  a  partiality  for  gipsies, 
murderers  or  not — and  the  General  remembered  Captain 
Walters  as  a  subaltern  in  India.  There  had  been  an 
attempt  made  on  his  life  out  there.  ...  He  was  an 
unlucky  man;  there  was  a  curse  upon  him.  He  had 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  263 

profaned  a  temple,  or  in  some  other  way  annoyed  the 
natives. 

Margot  was  not  much  amused  by  all  this  gossip  con- 
cerning people  she  knew  nothing  about,  and  for  whom 
she  cared  less,  and  tried  to  give  the  conversation  a  general 
turn. 

"It  is  difficult  to  imagine  murders  being  committed 
nowadays.  I  suppose  they  do  happen  occasionally;  but 
cheap  novels  have  made  even  the  accounts  of  them  in 
the  newspapers  seem  unreal,"  she  remarked.  "They 
seem  so  old-fashioned;  and  yet  I  suppose  the  lust  to 
kill  is  still  part  of  human  nature." 

"Murder  hasn't  been  disinfected  off  the  face  of  the 
earth  by  a  long  chalk,  Margot,"  Danbury  replied. 
"Don't  you  believe  it!  All  that  has  happened  is  that 
we  have  become  more  subtle.  We  don't  cut  the  victim's 
throat  nowadays.  We  ruin  him;  rob  him  of  friends, 
money,  and  reputation;  poison  his  wife  and  his  relatives 
against  him ;  cheat  him  out  of  attaining  whatever  it  is 
that  he  has  set  his  heart  on.  It  takes  longer  than  the 
old  way,  but  the  vengeance  is  more  complete!" 

Danbury  spoke  with  a  peculiar  and  rather  painful 
vehemence,  and  Margot  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  He 
was  the  same  odd  creature  that  he  had  been  at  Kings- 
worth,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Mary  Henderson's 
influence  had  to  some  extent  sterilised  his  morbidity, 
while  Sandhurst  had  given  him  an  outward  veneer  of 
similarity  to  the  recognised  pattern.  But  there  was 
an  intensity  in  his  nature,  of  which  the  scuffles  with 
pretty  housemaids  at  Kingsworth  had  only  been  one  mani- 
festation among  many. 

During  the  silence  which  fell  on  the  dinner-table, 
Margot  looked  at  the  slowly  moving  jaws  of  General 
Cornewall  who  was  still  stolidly  munching,  while  the  re- 


264  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

mains  of  various  courses  made  his  beard  unlovely.  Joyce 
looked  thoughtful,  and  unusually  quiet  for  one  who  was, 
as  a  rule,  so  animated.  Patcham  looked  uncomfortable, 
and  Vernon  characteristically  impenetrable.  That  im- 
penetrable mask;  how  well  Margot  knew  it!  And  what 
was  behind?  A  baby  boy  sitting  obstinately  among  his 
toys  and  snapping  at  his  nurse! 

The  butler  broke  the  tension  of  the  moment  by  bring- 
ing in  a  telegram  for  Margot  on  a  salver.  She  took  it 
and  laid  it  carelessly  by  the  side  of  her  plate.  Mrs. 
Cornewall  had  by  this  time  begun  to  talk  to  Vernon 
about  the  new  garage,  and  the  conversation  becoming 
general,  Margot  did  not  ask  leave  to  open  the  brown 
envelope.  Her  mother-in-law  noticed  this,  and  accounted 
it  to  her  for  virtue;  on  the  whole,  Margot  had  better 
manners  than  she  had  expected  or  dared  to  hope  for. 

Margot  was  glad  when  dinner  came  to  an  end  and  the 
women  were  able  to  escape  from  the  room.  Something 
had  jarred  her,  and  she  dated  her  discontent  from  the 
moment  when  Danbury  had  made  his  remark  about 
murders.  Was  she  being  cruel  to  Vernon?  But  why 
should  she  not  be  cruel  to  him?  Life  is  a  battle,  and  he 
was  better  equipped  than  she  was  for  the  struggle.  He 
had  youth,  wealth,  position,  good  looks.  If  he  could 
not  look  after  his  own  happiness  the  sooner  he  learnt  to 
do  so  the  better.  Her  thoughts  absorbed  her,  so  that 
she  forgot  about  the  envelope  in  her  hand. 

"Why,  Margot,"  said  Joyce,  laughing,  "you  haven't 
bothered  to  open  your  telegram.  I  thought  females 
were  supposed  to  be  curious !" 

"Good  heavens !"  said  Margot,  "I  forgot  all  about  it." 
She  tore  open  the  envelope  and  read  the  contents  with 
knitted  brows. 

Then   she   looked   up   and  met   her   mother-in-law's 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  265 

friendly  and  inquiring  eyes.  "It  is  from  one  of  Sir  Carl 
Frensen's  servants  or  from  his  solicitor,"  she  said. 
"The  old  man  is  very  ill,  and  has  asked  me  to  be 
sent  for  before  he  dies.  I  must  go  up  to-morrow 
morning." 

There  was  a  little  chorus  of  "Oh,  my  dear,  how 
dreadful !"  from  the  three  women  in  their  different 
vcices.  But  Margot  did  not  listen  to  conventional  ex- 
pressions of  sympathy.  She  was  interested  in  a  look — 
hard  as  steel — which  came  suddenly  into  the  eyes  of 
Vernon's  mother  at  the  sound  of  Carl  Frensen's  name. 
The  two  women,  in  a  flashed  glance,  strove  to  penetrate 
the  secrets  of  one  another's  hearts.  Neither  of  them 
was  successful. 

"I  must  tell  Vernon  to  let  me  have  the  car  to- 
morrow," Margot  remarked  calmly. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

GODFREY  LEVETT  had  grown  so  attached  to  his  flat  in 
Soho  Square  that  he  did  not  care  to  be  long  away  from 
it.  He  was  tired  of  wandering  about,  and  wanted  to 
settle  down  to  work  at  his  new  play.  An  excuse  for 
returning  to  London  before  the  end  of  September  was 
provided  by  Israel  Falkenheim,  who  had  written  to  tell 
him  of  some  examples  of  the  macabre,  erotic  art  of 
Felicien  Rops  that  were  to  be  offered  for  sale  at  Christie's. 
He  suggested  that  they  should  go  to  look  at  them 
together,  though  he  should  not  do  any  bidding  himself. 
He  was  hardly  the  man  to  buy  Rops;  but  they  would 
amuse  a  bachelor  like  Levett ! 

The  return  to  London  also  would  bring  him  nearer 
Margot  Stokes,  of  whom  he  found  himself  constantly 
thinking.  What  a  dazzling  witch  she  was!  There  was 
something  stinging  and  bitter  about  her  personality  that 
was  painful,  yet  alluring.  And  how  she  had  triumphed 
over  circumstances,  had  pushed  on,  battled  and  schemed, 
and  yet  had  remained  always  gay  as  well  as  hard.  The 
fire  of  life  in  her  burned  fiercely  and  steadily;  her  poor 
husband  was  scorched  by  it.  Levett  thought  of  what 
Vernon  must  suffer  at  Margot's  hands,  but  his  sympathy 
was  not  unmixed  with  contempt.  He  had  no  mercy  for 
men  who  succumbed  to  feminine  lures.  Women  were 
only  enchanting  when  they  were  slaves — conquered  and 
abject,  but  with  a  pretty  pretence  of  surface  wilfulness. 
He  believed  that  the  twentieth  century  would  see  the 
long-delayed  reassertion  of  the  ascendancy  of  Man. 
Nineteenth-century  feminism  was  already  vieux  jeu;  the 
suffragettes  had  given  it  its  death-blow.  The  "advanced 

266 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  267 

woman"   of   to-day    was   beginning   to    realise   in    her 
inmost   heart   how   much   healthier   and   more   natural 
were  sex  relations  in  the  dark  ages — that  even  the  Turk 
is  not  so  black  as  he  is  painted.     The  only  kind  of 
emancipated  woman  with  whom  Levett  had  any  sym- 
pathy was  Rachel's  kind,  and  she,  he  reflected,  was  half 
a  man  and  had  a  man's  brain.    As  for  the  bespectacled 
battalions  who  fill  up  all  the  most  convenient  desks  in 
the    British    Museum   Reading   Room,    they    were   too 
pathetic  even  to  be  ridiculous.    The  women  with  whom 
he  chose  to  occupy  his  thoughts  were  women  like  his 
own  mother — with  her  soft  voice,  her  little  tricks  of 
gesture,  and  her  jokes,  which  had  made  his  home  charm- 
ing and  his  memory  of  it  a  dear  possession.    Then  there 
were  all  the  women  who  added  to  the  joy  of  life — women 
who   were   accomplished,   intuitive,  voluptuous;   whose 
clothes  were  a  delight  to  the  eye ;  whose  minds,  by  their 
strange  qualities  of  feminine  intuition,  could  illuminate 
all  kinds  of  subjects  with  a  peculiar  radiance.     Then 
there  were  the  inspirational  women,  and,  rarest  of  all, 
the   women   who   loved,   not   like  the   animals,   merely 
exercising  natural  instincts,  but  with  the  heart  and  soul 
— the  women  who  would  give  all  for  love,  and  who, 
giving  all,  would  receive  all  in   return.     He  did  not 
believe  such  women  existed  nowadays,  nor  men  worthy 
to  mate  with  them ;  but  they  were  an  ideal  type.     Mean- 
while, the  chief  miseries  of  modern  women  he  ascribed 
to  the  fact  that  they  were  without  masters.    The  word 
"obey"  was  not  only  left  out  of  the  marriage  service — 
to  the  accompaniment  of  a  great  deal   of  newspaper 
advertisements — but  out  of  life  also.     And  this,  in  his 
observation,  seemed  to  act  like  a  poison  on  the  tempera- 
ment   of    the    average   woman,    doing    far    more    than 
"higher  education"  to  turn  her  into  a  prig.     The  mind 


268  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

of  woman  seemed  to  him  to  flourish  in  subjection,  and 
her  most  supreme  happiness  to  come  from  abnegation. 
To  a  world  which  is  not  decadent  the  man  is  master  of 
the  woman,  Levett  thought,  and  he  cherished  Zara- 
thustra's  advice:  "Thou  who  goest  to  women,  forget 
not  thy  whip!"  He  looked  on  man  as  the  clean,  the 
honest,  the  romantic  sex.  To  him  woman,  the  inferior 
animal,  was  only  worshipful  when,  of  her  own  will,  she 
stepped  gracefully  into  the  second  place.  Though  she 
might  occasionally  ply  the  whip,  she  must  not  seize  the 
reins.  He  and  Rachel  would  argue  with  gusto  about 
these  points  by  the  hour  together,  enjoying  their 
irreconcilable  divergence  of  opinion.  They  were  always 
vaguely  aware  of  some  point  of  mutual  sympathy  in  the 
midst  of  their  wranglings,  without,  however,  being  able 
to  define  exactly  what  it  was. 

Levett  met  Rachel  while  on  his  way  to  lunch  with 
Israel  Falkenheim  at  the  Savoy.  She  was  looking  in 
the  window  of  a  book-shop  in  the  Charing  Cross  Road, 
where  some  reproductions  of  Bakst's  drawings  of 
Xijinsky  were  exhibited. 

"I  am  going  to  spend  five  guineas  on  a  book  about  the 
Russian  ballet,  Godfrey,"  she  said  when  they  had  greeted 
one  another.  "I'm  now  enjoying  the  pleasures  of  antici- 
pation, like  a  child  outside  a  sweet-shop.  You  shall 
come  in  and  support  me!" 

When  the  book  was  bought  and  paid  for  they  walked 
on  together  for  a  little  while,  and  Levett  told  her  that 
he  was  lunching  with  Mr.  Falkenheim.  The  mention 
of  Mr.  Falkenheim  set  them  thinking  of  Margot. 

"I  suppose  Margot  Stokes  is  not  back  in  London  yet  ?" 
Godfrey  asked.  Rachel  did  not  know,  and  there  was 
something  in  her  voice  as  she  said  this  which  brought 
home  to  him  how  their  friendship  had  deteriorated  since 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  269 

the  days  when  this  girl,  who  still  interested  them  so 
strongly,  first  dawned  on  London.  He  wondered  if 
Rachel's  friendship  for  Margot  had  similarly  cooled  off. 
He  himself  was  a  very  faithful  friend,  and  sensitive  to 
any  coolness  or  indifference  on  the  part  of  people  for 
whom  he  cared.  When  they  reached  St.  Martin's 
Church  he  had  an  opportunity  of  watching  Rachel  un- 
noticed whilst  he  was  hailing  a  taxi  for  her.  He  thought 
he  observed  a  different  look  in  her  eyes  from  any  that 
used  to  be  there  a  year  ago.  She  was  harder,  more  self- 
reliant,  and  paler;  her  eyes  were  brighter  and  more 
liquid,  and  at  the  same  time  hungrier. 

"Come  and  have  tea  with  me  next  Tuesday,  Godfrey," 
Rachel  said,  as  she  gave  him  her  thin,  gloved  hand.  "It 
is  a  long  time  since  we  made  our  famous  onslaughts  on 
each  other's  sexes!  Come  early;  with  any  luck  I  shall 
be  alone." 

When  she  had  gone  he  avoided  the  unpleasantness  of 
walking  in  the  Strand,  a  thoroughfare  which  he  detested, 
and  drove  to  the  Savoy,  where  Mr.  Falkenheim  was 
waiting  for  him.  Godfrey  was  delighted  to  see  the  old 
man  again,  and  they  plunged  quickly  into  the  subject 
which  formed  their  common  ground  of  interest.  The 
younger  man  liked  his  elder's  elaborate  courtesies.  Mr. 
Falkenheim  had  in  a  curious  way  the  "grand  manner" 
at  the  luncheon-table.  Luncheon  was  a  meal  which  he 
understood  thoroughly,  and  Levett  always  felt,  after 
having  been  his  guest,  as  though  he  had  just  had  a  con- 
ference with  an  ambassador.  They  went  off  afterwards 
to  the  galleries  in  Pall  Mall,  where  the  collection  they 
had  come  to  see  was  being  shown  before  the  auction. 
The  collection  had  been  made  by  a  famous  Oxford  don, 
recently  dead,  and  was  being  hastily  dispersed  by  his 


270  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

executors,  who  were  simultaneously  ashamed  of  it  and 
anxious  to  profit  to  the  full. 

As  they  drove  along  the  crowded  Strand,  the  damp, 
rather  biting,  autumnal  breeze  came  in  through  the  open 
window  of  the  car  and  made  Levett  shiver.  The  air 
seemed  to  call  him  to  a  life  of  action,  seemed  to  urge 
him  to  leave  this  continual  art.  What  was  art,  after 
all,  compared  with  life?  He  was  going  to  look  at  pic- 
tures of  beautiful  women  seen  in  moments  of  intimacy 
— half-undressed  after  a  ball,  with  the  powder  still  on 
their  cheeks ;  on  the  point  of  entering  the  bath,  or  lying 
lazily  on  their  beds.  That  passion  on  Rops's  part  to 
show  beauty  holding  a  bath  sponge  or  standing  in  front 
of  a  cheval  glass  clad  only  in  a  pair  of  black  silk  stock- 
ings and  man's  top  hat — all  that,  he  felt,  was  nothing 
but  the  desire  on  the  part  of  the  artist  to  get  away  from 
the  atmosphere  of  "art".  .  .  . 

When  they  reached  the  galleries  Levett  realised  how, 
all  the  time,  at  the  back  of  his  head,  he  had  been  think- 
ing of  Margot  Stokes,  visualising  her  in  a  thousand 
different  positions — emerging  from  her  car  with  rich  furs 
over  her  shoulders;  entering  a  ballroom  with  the  same 
magnificent  shoulders  proudly  bare;  smiling;  shaking 
hands;  glancing  backwards.  He  knew  he  would  rather 
a  thousand  times  have  talked  to  Israel  Falkenheim  about 
Margot — living,  tangible,  one  of  God's  masterpieces — 
than  about  all  the  dusty  canvases  in  the  world,  whose 
authorship  was  open  to  question.  He  suffered  one  of 
his  periodic  moods  of  irritation  against  his  own  absorp- 
tion in  life's  mere  accessories.  The  keen  autumn  air 
had  started  it,  and  now  that  he  found  himself  in  the  long 
galleries,  where  numbers  of  attractive  women  in  their 
new  furs  were  walking  up  and  down,  so  full  of  psycho- 
logical possibilities,  he  felt  a  sensation  of  revolt.  He 


MARC OT S  PROGRESS  271 

listened,  with  one  ear,  while  Mr.  Falkenheim  talked, 
with  considerable  point  and  knowledge,  about  Armand 
Rassenfosse ;  about  the  Musee  Moderne  in  Brussels,  with 
its  wonderful  Alfred  Stevens's;  about  Rops's  celebrated 
"Venus,"  and  about  that  heady  odor  di  femina  which 
impregnates  all  the  Belgian  artist's  work.  Mr.  Falken- 
heim hated  Belgium,  and,  above  all,  Brussels.  "It  is 
a  veritable  cloaque,  that  city — the  cesspool  of  Europe! 
What  more  natural  than  that  an  art  like  that  of  Rops's 
should  blossom  in  it  like  some  evil  flower?"  Levett, 
who  was  fond  of  Brussels,  protested  warmly,  but  he 
found  it  difficult  to  keep  interested  in  the  conversation. 
He  felt  for  the  moment  that  it  would  be  more  exciting 
to  make  some  wonderful  new  acquaintance — to  experi- 
ence some  strong  emotion  of  hope,  desire,  or  fear.  .  .  . 

They  walked  up  and  down  the  long  room,  wondering 
how  it  came  about  that  an  elderly  Assyrian  scholar  and 
archaeologist  should  have  made  it  the  passion  of  his  life 
to  buy  pictures  which  represented  all  that  was  most 
frothy  and  hectic  and  impure  in  modern  civilisation. 
Every  canvas  and  every  drawing  seemed  to  exhale  an 
aroma  of  nineteenth-century  wickedness;  each  of  them 
had  the  peculiar  pungent,  half-forgotten  perfume  of 
"sin." 

An  amusing  woman  called  Mrs.  Arbuthnot,  who  was 
know  to  them  both  as  an  impassioned  haunter  of  sale- 
rooms, came  up  to  them  while  they  were  looking  at  a 
picture  of  a  young  woman  sitting  half-clothed  on  the 
edge  of  her  bed,  while  a  man  in  evening  dress  leant 
against  the  door  and  watched  her. 

"What  fun  sin  was!"  she  remarked  chirpily,  echoing 
Levett's  own  reflections.  "Life  will  never  be  the  same 
again  without  it.  It  was  the  greatest  invention  of  the 
whole  Victorian  era,"  she  sighed.  "Nowadays,  half  the 


272  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

romance  and  excitement  of  life  has  disappeared.  We 
are  all  so  terribly  hygienic,  mentally  and  physically.  I 
shall  bid  for  this  picture  to-morrow.  What  is  it  called? 
'La  Noce' !  I  shall  hang  it  in  my  own  room.  It  is  so 
evocative  of  all  the  poets  and  artists  who  used  to  come 
to  see  me  five-and-twenty  years  ago.  .  .  .  You  are  a 
writer,  Mr.  Levett.  You  ought  to  write  a  funeral 
oration  for  Sin,  with  the  Art  of  Felicien  Rops  as  the  peg 
to  hang  it  on !" 

Mrs.  Arbuthnot  moved  away  amid  pleasant  laughter, 
after  awakening  in  Mr.  Falkenheim  the  professional 
instinct  of  the  dealer.  He  knew  her  to  be  an  important 
buyer,  and  eagerly  discussed  with  Levett  the  probable 
effect  which  her  bidding  would  have  on  the  prices 
obtained.  .  .  . 

Then,  without  a  word  of  warning,  in  the  midst  of  this 
commonplace  conversation,  the  most  astonishing  scene 
enacted  itself.  Levett  could  hardly  trust  the  evidence 
of  his  eyes  and  ears;  what  took  place  was  too  wildly 
improbable,  too  swift,  too  unprovoked  and  unheralded 
for  belief.  They  had  approached  a  group  of  people  who 
were  looking  at  one  of  the  most  important  pictures  in 
the  collection.  Chance  brought  Israel  Falkenheim  next 
to  an  elderly,  bearded,  and  rather  corpulent  man  who  was 
leaning  his  weight  on  a  gold-headed  malacca  cane.  In 
turning  to  move  away,  this  man  accidently  jogged  Mr. 
Falkenheim's  elbow,  and  paused  to  apologise.  Levett 
saw  the  two  men  look  at  one  another.  Greatly  to  his 
surprise,  he  recognised  in  the  corpulent  individual  Sir 
Carl  Frensen.  Then,  to  his  amazement,  he  saw  an  ex- 
traordinary change  come  over  the  face  of  his  old 
friend.  It  was  as  though  Dr.  Jekyll  were  being  trans- 
formed, before  his  very  gaze,  into  Mr.  Hyde.  Israel 
Falkenheim's  black  eyes  gleamed  with  an  evil  fire.  Hia 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  273 

lips  were  drawn  tightly  back  over  his  teeth,  his  face  grew 
livid,  his  whole  appearance  suggested  some  savage  beast. 
Before  Levett  could  collect  himself  sufficiently  to  catch 
his  arm,  his  companion  had  struck  Sir  Carl  in  the  mouth 
with  the  back  of  his  hand.  As  he  did  so  he  uttered  a 
noise  resembling  the  cry  of  some  wolf-like  animal.  .  .  . 

The  buzz  of  conversation  in  the  long  room  stopped 
abruptly.  There  was  not  a  sound.  The  crowd  seemed 
to  be  frozen  for  an  appreciable  time  into  immobility. 
Every  head  was  turned,  every  eye  staring.  .  .  .  Levett, 
as  soon  as  he  recovered  himself,  seized  Mr.  Falkenheim 
by  the  arm,  while  Sir  Carl  stood  where  he  was,  his  face 
white  to  the  lips,  looking  haughtily  at  his  enemy.  Levett 
never  forgot  that  picture  of  him:  it  was  a  fine  example 
of  dignity  under  difficulties. 

Mr.  Falkenheim  did  not  resist  his  friend's  restraining 
grasp.  He  seemed  to  collapse  after  his  outburst,  though 
his  eyes  were  still  blazing  and  his  bony  fingers  twitch- 
ing like  claws.  Levett  led  him  quickly  away.  The 
crowd  began  once  more  to  look  hard  at  the  pictures,  and 
to  continue  its  conversations  in  extra  loud  tones  in  order 
to  lay  emphasis  on  the  perfection  of  its  breeding.  There 
was  no  scandal,  no  gesticulation,  no  raised  voices.  One 
young  girl  was  heard  to  whisper,  "Auntie,  Auntie  .  .  . 
did  you  see  ?"  and  for  a  few  moments  there  was  a  thrilled 
murmuring  in  different  quarters  of  the  room — but  that 
was  all.  The  hubbub  of  conversation  broke  out  again 
with  renewed  vigour,  just  as  it  does  when  someone  makes 
a  gaffe  at  the  dinner-table.  In  a  very  few  minutes  Mr. 
Falkenheim  was  in  his  car  being  driven  to  Richbourne 
Terrace.  He  did  not  open  his  mouth  to  say  one  word 
to  Levett  or  to  the  chauffeur.  His  lips  were  pressed 
tightly  together,  and  as  the  car  began  to  gather  speed 


274  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

Levett  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  sitting  bolt  upright, 
motionless  as  an  image. 

While  Godfrey  stood  on  the  pavement  undecided,  for 
the  moment,  what  to  do  next,  and  still  in  a  maze  of 
excitement  at  the  scene  which  had  just  been  enacted, 
he  became  aware  of  someone  emerging  through  the  swing 
doors  of  Christie's.  It  was  Sir  Carl  Frensen.  He 
walked  slowly,  leaning  on  his  cane.  His  face  was  quite 
impassive,  and  but  for  the  fire  in  his  red  eyes  and  a  some- 
thing contemptuous  in  the  carriage  of  his  head  he  showed 
no  traces  of  the  ordeal  through  which  he  had  just  passed. 
His  footman  hurried  up  and  opened  the  door  of  the  car, 
holding  the  rug  over  his  arm  ready  to  wrap  round  his 
master's  feet.  So  ended  one  of  the  most  astounding 
little  dramas  which  Levett  had  ever  in  his  life 
witnessed. 

Godfrey  did  not  feel  inclined  just  then  to  face  Mrs. 
Arbuthnot  and  one  or  two  other  acquaintances  whose 
presence  he  had  noticed  in  the  galleries,  and  walked  back 
thoughtfully  to  his  flat.  He  had  prayed  within  himself 
for  something  to  happen,  for  an  emotion;  and  in  what 
an  unexpected  fashion  had  his  prayer  been  granted !  As 
he  drew  into  his  lungs  the  rich  air  of  the  late  September 
afternoon,  he  experienced  a  renewed  zest  for  life  and  an 
increased  joy  in  all  the  things  which  seemed  to  him  to 
make  life  worth  living — in  music,  in  painting,  in  litera- 
ture; in  the  examination  of  the  world,  with  its  varied 
beauty;  and,  above  all,  in  the  study  of  his  fellow  men. 
He  felt  life  tingling  in  his  veins.  The  mood  of  indiffer- 
ence and  irritation  which  had  invaded  him  earlier  in  the 
day  had  now  disappeared,  and  anyone  who  had  remarked 
his  squared  shoulders  and  quick  step  would  have  put  him 
down  as  a  man  with  a  purpose.  He  had  no  "purpose," 
but  he  lived  for  the  emotions  of  the  mind,  and  his  vivid 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  275 

delight  in  living  preserved  him  from  the  dangers  of  aim- 
lessness.  Each  discovery  that  he  made  about  the  mys- 
terious secrets  of  human  nature  acted  on  him  as  a  tonic. 
The  fact  that  one  old  gentleman  in  a  white  felt  top  hat 
and  elastic-sided  boots  could  suddenly  strike  another  old 
gentleman  on  the  mouth,  before  the  eyes  of  half  the  cats 
in  London,  seemed  to  him  to  lend  existence  a  new  inter- 
est and  value.  In  every  face  that  he  passed  he  saw  more 
possibilities  than  before;  the  great  drama  of  humanity 
seemed  to  electrify  the  very  air  as  he  walked  back  to  his 
home  through  the  crowded  central  streets. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

As  Levett  drove  along  Oxford  Street  towards  Rachel's 
house  on  the  Tuesday  following  the  scene  at  Christie's, 
the  newsboys  were  running  up  and  down  with  brown  and 
yellow  placards.  The  brown  placard  bore  the  legend: 
"DEATH  OF  FAMOUS  FINANCIER,"  while  the  yellow,  more 
explicit,  announced:  "DEATH  OF  SIR  CARL  FRENSEN." 
Levett  stopped  the  cab  to  buy  one  of  the  papers,  and 
read  that,  after  an  illness  lasting  only  five  days,  Sir  Carl 
Frensen  had  died  at  one  o'clock  that  afternoon  at  his 
house  in  Belgrave  Square.  The  actual  cause  of  death 
was  said  to  be  meningitis.  There  followed  a  lengthy 
biography  of  the  dead  financier,  which  related,  in  bald 
journalese,  the  main  outlines  of  one  of  the  most  romantic 
careers  of  modern  times.  Levett  took  the  paper  in  with 
him  to  Rachel's  drawing-room,  feeling  sure  that  she 
would  be  interested. 

He  found  she  had  already  heard  the  news. 

"My  dear  Godfrey,"  she  said,  "what  do  you  think 
Eva  Firbank  has  just  told  me?  She  says  Sir  Carl  Frensen 
was  practically  murdered  by  Israel  Falkenheim.  Ap- 
parently Mr.  Falkenheim  horsewhipped  him  in  the  middle 
of  Belgrave  Square,  and  the  old  man  promptly  went 
home  and  took  to  his  bed.  .  .  .  Hylda  Rudin  gave  me 
quite  a  different  version,  though.  She  said  it  was  at  a 
picture  show  in  Bond  Street  that  the  scene  occurred, 
and  that  there  was  the  most  frightful  shindy.  The  old 
men  had  a  kind  of  free  fight,  and  had  to  be  separated 
by  the  attendants!" 

"I  was  the  'attendant,'  "  said  Levett,  "so  I  can  tell 

276 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRES  277 

you  what  actually  happened!  It  was  last  Wednesday 
afternoon,  at  the  exhibition  of  Professor  Tyne-Fowler's 
pictures  at  Christie's.  .  .  ."  He  told  her  the  whole 
singular  story  from  beginning  to  end.  When  he  had 
finished  she  stared  at  him  for  a  moment  without  speak- 
ing, fixing  her  liquid  dark  eyes  on  his  impassive  grey 
ones. 

"I  had  a  telegram  from  Margot,"  Levett  remarked, 
"just  before  I  came  out  this  afternoon.  She  has  asked 
me  to  dine  with  her  to-morrow.  She  and  Frensen,  as 
you  know  of  course,  were  great  friends.  She  will  miss 
him."  Levett  had  it  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  make 
some  comment  on  Margot's  connection  with  the  quarrel 
between  Mr.  Falkenheim  and  Sir  Carl ;  but  instinct 
restrained  him.  There  was  something  anxious  and  hard 
about  Rachel  nowadays;  she  was  quite  a  different 
woman  from  the  Rachel  with  whom  he  had  been  friends 
for  years,  and  his  loyalty  to  Margot  made  him  reticent 
on  her  behalf.  It  was  evident  that  Rachel  no  longer  had 
the  same  feelings  towards  Margot  that  she  had  enter- 
tained only  a  few  months  before.  She  seemed  to  have 
lost  interest  in  her:  to  have  "grown  out"  of  her  affec- 
tion in  the  same  way  that  a  man  "grows  out"  of  a 
hopeless  love.  Rachel  was  absorbed  in  her  new  circle  of 
women  friends  who  shared  her  particular  art  enthusiasms 
— in  her  Eva  Firbanks  and  Hylda  Rudins.  They  made 
a  little  world  of  their  own  in  which  both  he  and  Margot 
would  inevitably  be  made  to  feel  that  they  were  intruders. 
Godfrey,  however,  could  not  help  but  be  interested  in 
the  new  Rachel.  He  looked  round  the  drawing-room, 
which  had  been  so  familiar  to  him  in  Mrs.  Elkington's 
day,  and  noted  with  an  interest  almost  approaching  ex- 
citement the  changes  which  had  been  made.  The  whole 
room,  like  its  owner,  had  now  an  exotic,  half-barbarous 


278  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

flavour.  Petrouschka,  Rachel's  lovely  borzoi,  looked 
(to  Levett)  much  more  at  home  in  it  than  his  mistress. 
There  had  always  seemed  something  barbaric  about 
Petrouschka!  Levett  stroked  the  dog's  back  thought- 
fully, then  rose  from  the  black  divan  on  which  he  was 
sitting — it  reminded  him  of  the  divan  of  Queen  Thamar 
in  the  ballet — and  examined  one  of  the  black-framed 
Russian  pictures  which  hung  on  the  cream-coloured 
walls.  It  was  a  landscape  by  Roerich :  morne,  unearthly, 
violent,  terrible.  Black  thunder-clouds  battled  with  one 
another  in  the  heavens  and  brooded  over  a  dead  city  set 
in  an  arid  plain,  amid  rocks  and  desolation.  The  picture 
seemed  to  bring  into  the  room  a  mighty  wind — to  be 
like  a  message  from  those  creatures  who  shriek  in  storms 
that  burst  over  the  sea.  To  hang  such  a  thing  in  a 
drawing-room  struck  Godfrey  as  being  about  as  flippant 
as  it  would  be  to  offer  the  Angel  of  Death  a  cup  of  coffee. 
It  was  astonishing  to  him  that  Rachel,  who  had  always 
been  so  gently  "refined,"  should  suddenly  have  developed 
this  enthusiasm  for  violent  spiritual  emotions.  He  looked 
at  the  other  pictures,  all  of  which  had  the  same  Asiatic 
or  Byzantine  flavour,  combined  with  the  fantastic  oc- 
cultism of  the  Russian  religious  spirit;  at  the  black 
carpet,  and  again  at  Rachel.  He  felt  a  vague  resentment 
against  her — a  woman — for  showing  signs  of  what  he 
considered  to  be  a  particularly  masculine  form  of  imag- 
ination ! 

Levett  made  some  admiring  and  commonplace  com- 
ment on  the  room,  and  they  discussed  their  friends  for 
a  few  moments  longer.  But  it  was  evident  to  his  sensi- 
tive vanity  that  Rachel's  old  interest  in  him  had  gone 
The  animating  spirit  of  their  long  friendship  had  died; 
there  was  nothing  left  but  its  corpse.  He  went  away 
as  quickly  as  he  could,  and  as  he  left  the  house  his 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  279 

thoughts  were  full  of  Margot,  full  of  speculations  as  to 
her  relations  with  Carl  Frensen,  of  excited  anticipa- 
tion of  their  meeting  on  the  morrow.  His  visit 
to  Rachel  had  suddenly  made  Margot  seem  doubly  desir- 
able and  charming.  But  at  thirty-five,  he  reflected, 
one  doesn't,  of  course,  make  a  fool  of  oneself.  He 
went  over  once  again,  in  his  head,  his  views  about 
women.  .  .  . 

The  interval  seemed  unduly  long  before  he  found 
himself  outside  her  front  door  in  Charles  Street.  A  maid 
let  him  in.  Margot  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  small 
drawing-room,  and  as  he  entered  the  room  he  had  an 
unforgettable  vision  of  her,  with  the  light  from  a  shaded 
electric  lamp  falling  on  her  white  shoulders.  He  had 
always  thought  those  shoulders  the  loveliest  he  had  ever 
seen.  Her  black  frock  emphasised  the  beautiful  texture 
of  her  skin,  and  its  whiteness  as  of  alabaster.  Levett 
had  never  seen  Margot  suffer  from  "goose-flesh,"  like  so 
many  anaemic  modern  women.  Her  flesh  was  beautifully 
firm — filled  with  red  blood  under  the  smooth  velvet  skin. 
As  she  stood  under  the  light  her  hair  looked  as  pale  as 
pale  straw,  and  her  bright  blue  eyes  seemed  to  swim 
in  fire.  She  greeted  him  with  a  rather  scared  smile, 
like  a  woman  who  has  just  been  through  a  severe  shock, 
and,  looking  at  her  closely,  he  could  see  that  she  was 
deadly  pale  under  her  bold  maquillage. 

"I  don't  know  what  kind  of  dinner  you  will  get, 
Godfrey,"  she  said.  "The  house  is  not  open  properly 
yet,  and  most  of  the  servants  are,  of  course,  still  at 
Hotham.  However,  I  thought  it  would  be  more  cosy 
here  than  at  a  restaurant.  You  mustn't  grumble  if 
the  food  is  bad.  The  housekeeper  here  used  to  be  my 
mother-in-law's  cook  ages  ago,  and  was  rather  keen  to 
try  her  hand  again — just  for  swank,  of  course!" 


280  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

They  went  down  to  the  dining-room,  and  Levett  mar- 
velled how  it  was  that  the  raw  girl — vivid,  vulgar, 
and  strident — whom  he  remembered  three  years  ago, 
had  managed  to  learn  so  well  and  so  quickly  her  metier 
de  femme.  How  she  must  have  worked,  how  she  must 
have  observed  and  kept  her  ears  open!  It  could  not 
have  come  natural  to  her,  this  unerring  touch  in  the 
arrangement  of  a  little  dinner  which  should  be  intimate 
and  charming  and  not  too  long.  And  how  clever  of  her  to 
have  got  up  a  bottle  of  Krug  for  his  benefit  and  to  make 
a  pretty  apology  for  it  by  saying  she  felt  "run  down." 
Any  other  little  upstart  would  have  given  herself  away  by 
some  poisonous  touch  of  ostentation.  She  had  every 
excuse  for  feeling  run  down ;  but  she  did  not  drink  more 
than  her  one  glass,  to  which  she  made  a  pretence  every 
now  and  then  of  adding  a  "topper."  Levett  thought  of 
Rochester's  diatribes  against  matrimony — "Marriage,  oh, 
hell  and  furies,  name  it  not!" — and  remembering  how 
the  famous  old  rake  had  described  marriage  as  "a  noose 
to  catch  religious  woodcocks  in,"  he  began  to  think  that 
husbands,  if  they  kept  their  wits  about  them,  really  got 
more  out  of  life  than  old  roues  as  industrious  in  vice  as 
bumble-bees. 

They  did  not  speak  much  at  dinner-time  about  Carl 
Frensen's  death,  and  this  conscious  waiting  on  Margot's 
part  till  they  should  be  "alone"  seemed  to  underline 
her  treatment  of  him  as  an  intimate,  which  all  the  other 
details  of  this  impromptu  and  rather  daring  dinner  em- 
phasised. Throughout  the  meal  Margot's  mere  presence, 
so  close  to  him  that  the  faint  perfume  of  her  skin  was 
always  perceptible  and  troubling,  was  an  enchantment. 
And  it  flattered  him  that  this  hard  beauty,  who  had 
clawed  her  way  up  so  ruthlessly,  who  was  more  feared 


MARCOT'S  PROGRESS  281 

than  beloved,  should  hang  on  everything  he  said  and 
bow  before  his  sub-acid  onslaughts. 

After  dinner  they  went  upstairs  to  Margot's  own 
"den"  for  their  coffee. 

"I  simply  can't  tell  you  what  I  have  been  through 
in  the  last  two  days,"  said  Margot,  as  soon  as  they  were 
alone.  "I  was  wired  for  at  Hotham,  and  only  just  got 
up  to  London  in  time.  Poor  old  man,  I  really  believe 
he  cared  for  me,  in  his  curious  way.  It  was  horrible 
going  to  the  house!  I  thought  the  butler,  whom  I  al- 
ways detested,  had  been  drinking.  One  seemed  some- 
how to  notice  the  servants :  they  were  vaguely  disorderly 
and  out  of  hand.  And  other  people  were  there  trying  to 
get  in  to  see  him.  Solicitors,  business  men  of  all  kinds 
— and  several  women.  Two  of  the  women  I  knew  well 
by  sight,  but  one  was  quite  a  common  creature  with 
rather  fine  red  hair.  They  all  stared  at  me  most  inso- 
lently. There  wasn't  any  doubt  about  them.  I  don't 
know  what  they  thought  of  me,  and  I  don't  really  care. 
But,  oh,  that  room !  I  shall  never  forget  it.  It  was  like 
a  church — so  tall! — with  the  blinds  drawn  to  save  his 
poor  weak  eyes,  and  the  daylight  struggling  through  at 
the  sides.  Nurses,  doctors — ugh!  It  was  horrible." 
Margot  shuddered  at  her  recollection  of  the  death- 
chamber.  She  had  hitherto  had  but  little  experience  of 
death;  it  horrified  and  revolted  her.  She  wanted  to 
shut  out  the  thought  of  it  and  the  vision  of  it  from 
her  mind.  "I  had  to  sit  by  him  while  he  lay  on  his 
back  gasping,  hardly  able  to  talk.  He  wanted  to  hold 
my  hand,  poor  old  man,  and  he  told  me  he  had  always 
cared  for  me  more  than  for  any  of  them.  I  suppose  he 
meant  the  creatures  waiting  downstairs  in  the  dining- 
room,  and  if  so,  it  wasn't  much  of  a  compliment.  And 
then  he  rambled  on  about  Mr.  Falkenheim.  lie  kept 


282  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

saying  how  'indifferent'  he  was.  'A  very  worthy  man 
.  .  .  his  wife,  as  a  young  woman,  was  much  too  good 
for  him.  ...  I  did  him  an  injury  .  .  .'he  said,  'and 
we  always  dislike  the  people  we  injure.  But  I  never 
had  the  energy  to  hate  him.  One  doesn't  hate  one's 
inferiors,  Margot,'  he  went  on,  'but  he  is  not  a  bad  man. 
I  can't  forgive  the  way  he  behaved  to  you,  my  dear; 
I  can't  forgive  him  that.  But  I've  made  it  up  to  you. 
Sebastian,  my  lawyer,  will  tell  you  how.  ...  I  should 
have  liked  to  see  you  in  a  ballroom  again  before  I  died. 
The  finest  pair  of  shoulders  in  London/  Just  like  that 
he  said  it,  as  though  he  were  flirting  with  me  over  the 
supper-table.  Now  what  is  goodness  and  badness,  God- 
frey?" 

There  were  actually  tears  in  Margot's  eyes  as  she  asked 
the  question,  and  Levett  could  see  that  she  was  genuinely 
moved.  "I  suppose  he  was  bad.  Everyone  always  said 
he  was  a  fairly  black-hat — scandals  on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change and  all  that — just  what  everyone  always  says 
about  wealthy  'financiers.'  And  then,  of  course,  there 
were  those  creatures  in  the  dining-room.  He  never  made 
any  pretence  about  what  he  liked  in  a  woman:  never 
talked  nonsense  about  her  'soul/  when  he  was  really 
thinking  of  her  figure  or  her  hair.  And  yet  the  tangible 
part  of  us  wasn't  all  that  interested  him.  He  was  a  con- 
noisseur, a  critic ;  he  liked  men  and  women  and  cared  for 
what  they  thought  about.  And  he  was  acute  and  kind. 
Even  when  he  laughed  at  one,  he  was  never  cruel.  I 
don't  think  he  can  have  been  so  very  bad,  Godfrey.  He 
wasn't  a  humbug;  and  besides,  the  creatures  I  told  you 
of  were  blubbering  like  babies  in  the  hall  as  I  went  out, 
and  I  was  just  as  silly  myself.  ..." 

They  went  on  talking  about  the  dead  man,  but  Levett 
did  not  tell  her  about  the  scene  at  Christie's.  He  knew 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  283 

that  she  would  not  forgive  Israel  Falkenheim:  that  she 
would  not  rest  until  she  had  avenged  her  friend,  blow 
for  blow.  An  unsuspected  loyalty  had  revealed  itself  in 
Margot's  character  this  evening.  He  did  not  quite  under- 
stand the  system  on  which  this  loyalty  worked;  he  did 
not  believe  for  an  instant  that  her  husband  had  ever 
succeeded  in  evoking  it ;  but  it  was  certainly  there.  Her 
heart  had  cast-iron  defences,  to  pierce  which  perhaps 
some  finer  and  harder  metal  was  necessary.  But  once  her 
heart  was  touched.  .  .  . 

"I  believe  she  could  be  faithful  and  devoted  to  anyone 
whom  she  loved/'  he  reflected.  Hitherto  he  had  always 
looked  on  her  as  impervious  to  any  real  feeling;  though 
the  streak  of  sensuality  which  he  suspected  her  to  possess 
might  deceive  a  man  for  a  while.  But  now  he  was 
inclined  to  believe  himself  wrong. 

"Heigho,  Godfrey!  IVe  depressed  you  with  all  this. 
Cheer  up !  I  shall  be  in  London  for  a  few  days.  There 
is  to  be  a  memorial  service  at  some  church  or  other  on 
Monday,  for  which  I  must  stay.  Then  I  suppose  I 
must  go  back  to  Hotham.  I  wish  you  were  coming  down 
for  a  week  or  two.  You  know,  Godfrey,  you  have  made 
my  life  unbearable  ever  since  you  recommended  me  to 
slip  off  to  Harding  Broadley's  nursing  home.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  about  you,  but  you  and  Rachel  Elkington 
between  you  have  made  me  thoroughly  discontented.  Not 
that  I'm  specially  keen  on  changing  my  existence  for 
Rachel's,  by  the  way.  I  feel  as  though  I  were  living  in 
a  tunnel  and  that  the  fresh  air  was  getting  gradually 
exhausted!  I  could  scream  sometimes!  The  things  I 
have  to  do  just  because  I  am  I — Vernon's  wife — would 
make  anyone's  hair  turn  grey.  You  know  it  isn't  my 
trade,  Godfrey.  I  wasn't  born  to  it — thank  God! — and 
I  don't  like  it.  I'm  interested  in  other  things.  I  want 


284  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

to  walk  about  and  look  around  and  make  a  rubber-neck 
at  life;  not  go  on  doing  the  same  sort  of  stupid  thing, 
year  after  year !"  She  spoke  with  bitterness,  and  with  a 
kind  of  intensity  of  discontent  which  Levett  thought  must 
lead  to  trouble — for  someone. 

"You  know  it  is  your  fault,  very  largely,"  she  went  on, 
smiling  at  Levett  affectionately.  "You  enjoy  your  own 
life  so  thoroughly,  you  make  me  realise  how  I  might 
enjoy  mine!  At  all  events,  that  is  one  thing  Carl 
Frensen's  death  has  brought  me.  I'm  independent  now. 
I've  a  fortune  of  my  own." 

Godfrey  glanced  at  her  and  then  looked  away.  But 
after  all,  he  thought,  there  was  no  reason  why  he 
shouldn't  be  frankly  interested  in  her  inheritance.  The 
fact  that  money,  for  intelligent  people  who  knew  how 
to  spend  it,  was  not  a  thing  to  be  sneezed  at,  was  one  of 
the  main  articles  of  his  personal  credo.  He  had  stated  it 
constantly.  There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  be  at 
pains  to  conceal  it  now.  Margot  did  not  seem  particu- 
larly excited  about  the  details  of  her  legacy.  She  was 
still  so  stunned  by  Frensen's  death  that  her  imagination 
had  not  begun  to  work  to  enable  her  to  visualise  the 
inheritance  which  had  come  to  her.  "He  told  me  he 
had  given  me  £250,000,"  she  said  in  answer  to  Godfrey's 
inquiries,  "and  his  villa  at  Cap  Martin,  and  his  flat  in 
Paris  in  the  Avenue  Hoche,  and  Courbet's  portrait  of 
him  as  a  young  man.  He  said  he  wanted  me  to  have 
that  portrait,  so  that  I  should  know  what  he  looked 
like  forty  years  ago!  That  was  almost  the  last  thing 
he  said  before  he  became  unconscious,  and  it  made  him 
laugh.  That  was  the  last  I  saw  of  him — laughing." 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Levett,  "you  certainly  ought 
now  to  be  able  to  fashion  your  existence  according  to 
your  inclinations:  with  ten  or  twelve  thousand  a 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  285 

year  of  your  own  and  two  desirable  residences.  I  envy 
you!" 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly,  and  her  white  arm 
slid  along  the  edge  of  the  sofa,  behind  him.  If  he 
leaned  back  he  would  touch  it.  They  were  silent 
for  some  minutes.  It  occurred  to  Levett  that,  to  be 
true  to  his  principles,  he  ought  to  say  good-bye  now 
to  Margot,  to  leave  her.  But  for  the  moment  he  could 
not  stir.  Something  in  her  eyes  seemed  to  hold  him. 

"What  is  money  to  a  women  who  is  lonely,  Godfrey? 
You  think  that  is  a  strange  thing  for  me  of  all  people 
to  say.  But  I  mean  it."  She  paused  for  a  while,  and 
when  she  began  to  speak  again  he  felt  the  cold  chill 
of  disappointment  that  comes  with  the  realisation  that 
an  opportunity  has  been  missed.  "I  don't  in  the  least 
know  how  Vernon  will  take  this  legacy,"  she  went  on. 
"He  is  so  extraordinary !  One  never  can  count  on  him 
He  may  be  furious  and  say  I  mustn't  accept  it.  I  am 
going  to  write  and  tell  him  about  it,  and  give  it  a  few 
days  to  sink  in,  before  I  go  back  to  Hotham.  I  expect  he 
will  get  used  to  it  in  time.  Well,  he  will  have  to,  poor 
dear,"  she  added,  laughing. 

Levett  stared  for  a  moment  at  his  small,  finely  made 
ankles  that  looked  so  well  in  black  silk  socks,  and  then 
rose  to  his  feet  with  a  certain  conscious  grace  of  move- 
ment. 

"I  don't  envy  you  the  ordeal,  my  dear  Margot,"  he 
said  with  a  smile,  as  he  prepared  to  take  his  leave  of 
her;  "but  only  fools  despise  riches.  Poor  people  often 
say  they  don't  care  about  money.  But  we  know  what 
that  means!  Even  religious  people,  monks  and  so  on, 
only  appear  to  despise  ordinary  wealth  because  they 
happen  to  prefer  a  kind  of  esoteric  riches.  As  one  isn't 
in  a  convent,  I  believe  in  being  just  about  as  rich  in 


286  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

this  world's  goods  as  it  is  possible  to  be.  I  congratulate 
you,  chere  amie.  But  I  admit  the  situation  has  its 
difficult  side !" 

He  looked  at  himself  in  the  glass  as  he  straightened 
his  tie,  and  Margot,  standing  behind  him,  stared  into  the 
reflection  of  his  grey  eyes.  What  mysterious  eyes  they 
were !  Were  they  wicked  or  only  wise  ?  The  picture  he 
made  in  the  glass  with  his  ivory-white  skin,  dark  hair 
so  carefully  "plastered  down,"  well-cut  dinner  jacket, 
gleaming  shirt  front,  and  broad  black  tie  suggested,  in 
the  artfully-shaded  glow,  some  polite  devil.  Levett 
always  made  her  feel  like  a  Sunday-school  miss;  while 
Vernon  always  made  her  feel  like  a  fiend,  all  claws. 
She  wondered  why  this  was.  Already  she  knew  that, 
devil  or  not,  Levett  might  one  day  acquire  the  power  to 
frighten  and  hurt  her  and  to  make  her  obey  him.  And 
she  longed  with  her  whole  heart  to  be  frightened  and 
hurt,  and  to  be  made  to  obey.  .  .  . 

Margot  accompanied  her  guest  down  to  the  hall. 

"I  may  come  and  call  on  you  one  afternoon  before 
I  go  down  to  Hotham,"  she  said.  "I  will  send  a  tele- 
phone message  to  warn  you  if  I  do.  Otherwise  I  suppose 
I  shall  see  nothing  of  you  till  we  come  up  again  ?  Vernon 
insists  on  slaughtering  the  wretched  pheasants.  We 
have  another  agonising  shooting  party  coming  down  for 
the  week  after  next.  I  wish  you  were  coming,  too,  to 
counteract  them!" 

They  shook  hands  decorously,  and  as  he  opened  the 
door  to  let  himself  out  he  had  a  quick  glimpse  of  her 
standing  in  the  white  light  of  the  electric  lamp  which 
lit  the  hall.  There  was  something  radiant  in  her  face, 
and  under  its  artificial  freshness  a  glow  of  youth  seemed 
to  vivify  it.  5(\nd  in  her  brilliant  blue  eyes  he  noticed 
for  the  first  time  a  look  of  tenderness. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

ALTHOUGH  Vernon  had  ample  time  before  her  return 
to  Hotham  in  which  to  answer  his  wife's  letter  announc- 
ing her  legacy  from  Sir  Carl  Frensen,  he  did  not  do  so. 
This  fact  awoke  in  Margot  a  certain  uneasiness.  She 
did  not  like  Vernon's  silences;  they  almost  invariably 
indicated  that  he  was  "thinking  things."  The  idea  that 
Vernon  should  be  in  a  position  to  "think  things"  about 
her  filled  her  with  irritation.  She  knew  she  was  being 
unfair  to  him;  but  he  was  the  kind  of  man  to  whom  it 
was  impossible  for  a  woman  to  be  other  than  unfair. 
Life  with  him  had  resolved  itself  into  a  conflict  of 
egoisms,  in  which  victory  was  an  essential  of  peace.  She 
did  not  dare  give  way  an  inch. 

As  the  train  hurried  her  through  the  pensive  autumn 
landscape,  through  woods  where  the  yellowing  leaves 
still  hung  forlornly  on  the  trees,  past  orchards  where  the 
red  apples  hung  like  emblems  of  fecundity — Nature's 
ultimate  aim — Margot  found  herself  invaded  by  an 
enervating  melancholy.  She  was  tired.  She  did  not 
want  to  do  any  more  fighting,  any  more  struggling.  She 
had  no  desire  to  hurt  Vernon;  she  bore  him  no  ill-will; 
but  they  were  grotesquely  unsuited  to  one  another.  Why 
had  he  been  such  a  fool  as  to  marry  her,  she  wondered? 
That  little  idiot,  Ida  Mertoun,  with  her  chatter  about 
books  and  her  little  verses  which  she  contributed  to 
the  magazines,  would  have  suited  him  excellently.  Each 
was  as  empty  and  as  pretentious  as  the  other,  and  each 
had  the  same  instincts  and  ambitions.  Ida  would  have 
been  delighted  to  have  dropped  her  poetising  and  have 
settled  down  to  the  business  of  being  Lady  Stokes,  the 

287 


288  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

business  for  which  she  was  fitted  so  admirably.  They 
would  have  stuck  together.  After  four  or  five  years  Ida 
would  have  provided  the  two  necessary  children.  Then 
perhaps  a  lover  or  two  would  have  helped  to  keep  her 
amused  until  the  children  became  "interesting."  Con- 
tentment! Ida  would  have  been  so  contented.  She 
saw  the  whole  of  Ida's  life  stretched  out  in  her  mind's 
eye:  her  life  as  Vernon's  wife.  What  a  fool  Vernon 
had  been  not  to  see  what  was  best  for  himself.  And  he 
would  have  enjoyed  being  Lord  Mertoun's  son-in-law,  she 
reflected :  she  knew  him  so  well !  They  would  have  got 
on  just  smoothly  enough  and  quarrelled  just  often  enough 
to  make  their  joint  lives  tolerable ;  while  the  dead-weight 
of  their  two  families,  and  their  inherited  sense  of  respon- 
sibility, would  have  kept  them  together.  But  Vernon 
had  been  foolish  enough  to  marry  her,  and  as  she  thought 
of  his  adoration  of  her  beauty,  an  adoration  so  constantly 
displayed,  she  softened  towards  him.  His  passion  for 
her  had  lasted  astonishingly.  She  had  given  him  moments 
perhaps  of  greater  happiness  than  he  would  ever  have 
known  with  Ida.  But  instinctively  she  knew  within  her- 
self, and  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  it,  how  she  was 
still  to  make  him  suffer.  .  .  .  Fool,  fool,  that  he  was! 
He  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  marry  a  wild, 
violent,  dissatisfied  creature  like  herself.  Why  should 
she  pity  him?  No  one  pitied  fools  nowadays;  all  that 
sort  of  thing  went  out  for  good  with  Dobbin  and 
Amelia ! 

The  landscape  became  increasingly  familiar;  the  train 
drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  station  where  the  car 
would  be  waiting  to  drive  her  over  the  moor  to  Hotham. 
The  Ashbury's  house,  to  be  discerned  at  the  end  of  a 
long  avenue  of  elms,  flashed  by.  And  now  on  the  white 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  289 

high  road  which  ran  parallel  with  the  railway  line  she 
could  see  the  Vicar  of  Woollscombe,  driving  his  old 
mare  in  his  high  yellow  dog-cart.  He  was  going  to  have 
afternoon  tea  with  Miss  Thorpe,  up  at  "The  Spinney." 
Margot  remembered  that  it  was  the  local  gossip  that  Miss 
Thorpe  meant  to  catch  him,  "and  what  a  good  thing  it 
would  be  for  his  two  little  girls  to  have  someone  to 
look  after  them."  The  vicar's  first  wife  had  been  a 
daughter  of  George  Brandon,  a  drunken  reprobate  who 
lived  in  the  next  village  to  Hotham,  but  had  the  felicity 
of  belonging,  in  Vernon's  eyes,  to  the  "known."  A 
scornful  interior  chuckle  ran  through  Margot  at  the  recol- 
lection of  Vernon's  description  of  Mr.  Brandon.  People 
had  more  sense  on  those  points,  even  in  Montreal.  There 
a  waster  was  a  waster ;  and  if  he  was  "known,"  so  much 
the  worse  for  him. 

As  the  train  slowed  down,  cottages,  farms,  large  and 
small  houses  went  by  the  window,  the  inhabitants  of 
which  were  all  known  to  her.  There  was  the  grey  stucco 
villa  of  the  veterinary  surgeon  with  the  wife  who  drank, 
who  had  been  called  in  when  Teddy,  her  grey  pom,  had 
his  fits.  The  bigger  house  farther  on,  with  the  Virginia 
creeper  all  over  it,  was  Doctor  Parkinson's.  Margot  had 
always  thought  kindly  of  the  Parkinsons  since  the  vicar's 
wife,  when  calling  at  Hotham,  had  confided  to  her  how 
terribly  "not  quite"  poor  Mrs.  Parkinson  was!  The 
church  appeared;  then  the  vicarage;  then  the  "White 
Hart" ;  then  the  horrid  little  station.  Now  for  it !  Margot 
resumed  her  heaviest  manner  as  Tom,  the  new  footman, 
opened  the  door  of  the  car  for  her  and  settled  the  rugs 
over  her  knees  before  returning  to  his  place  by  the 
chauffeur's  side.  .  .  . 

Margot  was  conscious  of  a  certain  stillness  and  empti- 


290  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

ness  about  Hotham  on  her  arrival.  Vernon  was  out 
talking  to  the  game-keepers,  Ernestine  was  subdued — 
depressing  as  a  wet  blanket.  Vernon  came  in  at  tea- 
time  and  greeted  her  with  a  certain  forced  naturalness 
which  boded  ill.  It  was  his  idea  of  being  subtle  to  become 
wooden  whenever  anything  went  on  inside  his  brain. 
He  was  affectionate  to  Margot,  laughed  and  talked  in  an 
ordinary  voice,  but  there  was  a  careful  avoidance  of 
mentioning  Carl  Frensen,  which  made  it  obvious  to  her 
that  his  mind  was  entirely  taken  up  with  considerations 
of  this  one  subject.  The  semi-publicity  of  the  drawing- 
room,  however,  prevented  him  from  broaching  it  at  tea- 
time.  Someone  might  have  come  in;  and  it  would  have 
horrified  Vernon  to  have  allowed  himself  to  be  surprised 
in  the  middle  of  a  "scene."  In  his  view,  only  the  middle 
and  lower  classes  ever  indulged  in  "words."  At  dinner 
he  casually  remarked  that  his  grandparents  were  motoring 
over  from  Qevedon  the  next  day,  and  would  arrive  in 
time  for  luncheon.  He  did  not  see  Margot  bite  her 
lips  as  he  made  this  announcement,  or  notice  the  sup- 
pressed passion  which  suddenly  blazed  up  in  her  blue 
eyes.  He  was  not  looking  at  her,  but  was  hunting  about 
the  room  for  his  cigarette-box. 

"So  he  has  told  them !"  Margot  thought.  "The  stupid 
coward !  I  won't  give  way  a  single  inch  for  all  the  Corne- 
walls  or  Stokeses  in  the  world !" 

"I  expect  mother  will  come  too,"  Vernon  added,  when 
he  had  found  his  cigarette-box.  He  opened  the  lid  as 
he  spoke  and  offered  one  to  his  wife.  "She  is  staying 
with  them  now  at  Qevedon."  So  a  family  council  was 
to  sit  in  judgment  on  her,  Margot  thought.  Very  well. 
They  would  find  her  ready  for  them ! 

"What  do  they  want  to  come  and  see  us  again  so  soon 
for,  I  wonder?"  she  said  aloud.  "It  is  barely  a  fortnight 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  291 

since  they  left,  and  your  mother  and  grandmother  can't 
want  to  shoot  pheasants !" 
Vernon  did  not  reply. 

The  evening  passed  slowly.  It  was  very  rare  for  them 
to  find  themselves  alone  in  the  house,  without  visitors 
to  mitigate  their  constant  companionship.  Usually  this 
would  have  filled  Vernon  with  pleasure,  but  to-night  he 
was  uncomfortable,  conscious,  perhaps,  of  his  wife's  cold 
and  concentrated  fury,  and  taken  aback  by  it.  Margot 
knew  quite  well  what  he  was  waiting  for.  He  would  come 
into  her  bedroom  to  say  good-jiight,  and  they  would  have 
a  heart-to-heart  talk.  She  would  weep  on  his  pyjamas 
and  be  kissed  and  agree  to  give  up  her  legacy  after  pro- 
testing the  purity  of  her  relations  with  Frensen !  Would 
she,  by  God!  Her  eyes  glittered,  at  the  prospect,  in  a 
way  which  Vernon  noticed  and  which  struck  him  as 
being  vaguely  ominous.  If  he  hadn't  flown  to  his 
family  for  moral  support,  she  would  have  felt  com- 
punctions, and  perhaps  have  given  way  to  him,  or  at 
least  have  compromised  and  "been  nice."  But  now  her 
heart  was  like  a  flint.  She  would  not  yield  one  inch 
for  the  whole  lot  of  them,  and  she  would  make  him  suffer 
for  his  mean  cowardice. 

Vernon  kept  up  an  intermittent  flow  of  small  talk  while 
Margot  sat  with  a  novel  in  her  lap,  the  illustrated  papers 
spread  out  on  the  sofa  round  her,  and  an  open  cigarette- 
case  by  her  side. 

The  new  garage  would  be  finished  next  week.  It  would 
be  a  relief,  wouldn't  it,  to  get  the  workmen  away  from 
the  place !  Then  there  was  the  question  of  the  next  party 
and  where  they  were  to  be  put.  (The  party  for  the  First 
had  only  recently  broken  up.) 

Patcham  and  Joyce  wouldn't  object  to  being  doubled 
up  in  the  long  room.  Captain  Armytage  would  have 


292  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

Uncle  George's  room,  Tommy  Maunsell  could  have  the 
blue  room,  and  Hellyar  the  room  over  the  library.  At 
ten,  when  the  butler  was  due  to  take  the  spirit-tray  into 
his  den,  Vernon  got  up  and  left  his  wife.  He  was 
obviously  ill  at  ease.  His  lips  twitched  under  his  mous- 
tache, and,  as  Margot  put  it  to  herself,  "he  kept  feeling 
about  with  his  hands  for  his  dignity,  to  make  sure  it  was 
there."  She  foresaw  that  he  would  be  very  nervous, 
before  the  evening  was  over,  about  his  dignity.  And 
while  she  observed,  sardonically,  his  weaknesses,  her 
anger  blinded  her  to  the  misery  in  his  eyes,  the  agonised 
dumb  wretchedness  of  him.  He  was  like  some  beautiful 
stag  firmly  entangled  in  a  snare  and  suffering,  suffer- 
ing. .  .  . 

While  Vernon  was  fortifying  himself  in  his  "study" 
with  a  whisky-and-soda  and  trying  to  fix  his  attention 
on  "Lord  Ormont  and  his  Aminta,"  Margot  went  up  to 
her  room.  As  she  walked  slowly  up  the  broad  staircase 
of  black  oak  that  was  one  of  the  glories  of  Hotham,  she 
felt  a  fierce  dislike  of  the  house.  It  was  not  her  house ; 
it  was  Vernon's.  She  had  a  longing  to  live  in  a  house 
of  her  own,  and  her  heart  leapt  within  her  when  she 
reflected  that  this  was  now  possible.  She  actually  pos- 
sessed a  house  of  her  own,  and  a  flat  in  Paris,  near  the 
Pare  Monceau.  She  remembered  the  Pare  Monceau  so 
well,  with  its  rows  of  nurses  and  perambulators,  packed 
tight  as  the  geraniums  in  a  suburban  front  garden;  its 
monuments  to  Chopin  and  Maupassant;  its  oval  lake 
flanked  by  the  semi-circular  colonnade;  its  air  of  prim- 
ness and  artificiality.  And  she  remembered  the  quiet 
streets  all  round  the  little  park :  the  Avenue  Van  Dyke, 
the  Rue  Murillo,  the  Avenue  Ruysdael,  and  the  broader 
Avenue  Hoche.  So  she  had  a  flat  close  to  the  Pare 
Monceau,  in  that  sumptuous  quarter  of  her  adored  Paris ! 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  293 

Of  course,  she  would  have  to  go  over  there  very  soon 
to  take  possession.  Sir  Silas  Cornewall,  Knight  (of 
Charles  I.'s  reign),  stared  at  her  insolently  from  his 
frame  as  she  leant  over  the  oak  baluster  to  look  down  into 
the  hall.  He  seemed  to  say  to  her,  "What  are  you  doing 
here!  Your  home  is  in  Paris,  in  the  Pare  Monceau 
district.  You  have  a  villa  at  Cap  Martin.  You  are  an 
alien.  Go  away !" 

"I  feel  tired  to-night,  Ernestine.  I  have  had  a  very 
worrying  time  in  London,"  Margot  remarked  to  her  maid 
when  she  reached  her  bedroom. 

"Milady  looks  very  pale,"  Ernestine  replied.  "The 
country  air  will  do  her  good.  But  as  for  me,  the  country 
kills  me,  Milady.  C'est  assotnmant,  a  la  fin,  de  tester 
a  la  campagne." 

"How  would  you  like  to  come  with  me  to  Paris, 
Ernestine  ?" 

"Ah,  Milady  is  joking!" 

"Not  at  all.  I  have  a  flat  there  now  and  a  villa  at 
Cap  Martin.  You  would  enjoy  visiting  them  with  me !" 
Ernestine's  look  of  rapture  made  Margot  chuckle.  At 
least  her  legacy  would  make  one  fellow-creature  happy. 

When  she  had  dismissed  her  maid,  Margot  turned  off 
the  switch  of  her  reading-lamp  and  waited.  In  a  little 
while  she  could  hear  Vernon  moving  about  in  the  next 
room.  She  lay  in  her  bed  with  closed  eyes,  her  body 
taut,  expectant,  nerves  strung  like  bow-strings,  ready 
to  vibrate  to  the  smallest  touch.  At  last  there  came 
the  knock  at  the  door — decisive  and  sharp,  carefully 
not  timid — and  Vernon  came  towards  her  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

"Look  here,  Margot,"  he  said,  speaking  quickly,  some 
of  his  words  losing  themselves  in  his  moustache,  "this 
^rensen  business,  you  may  as  well  know,  has  got  to  be 


294  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

cleared  up  between  us.  It  is  driving  me  off  my  head. 
I  didn't  say  anything  to  you  before  or  write  to  you.  I 
couldn't.  But  there  is  no  use  putting  it  off.  We  have 
got  to  have  it  out  sooner  or  later." 

Margot  gave  an  ostentatious  yawn.  "Get  off  my  leg, 
for  Heaven's  sake!"  she  snapped.  "You  are  simply 
breaking  it.  You  weigh  about  a  ton.  I  am  tired  out. 
...  I  have  been  run  to  death  all  the  week,  in  London, 
but,  of  course,  you  never  have  the  slightest  consideration 
for  anyone  but  yourself.  ..." 

They  were  still  in  darkness,  and  could  not  see  one 
another.  Vernon  had  left  the  light  on  in  his  bedroom, 
and  a  faint  yellow  glow  coming  through  the  top  and 
bottom  of  the  communicating  door  was  the  only  glimmer 
of  illumination  in  the  heavily  curtained  room.  But 
Vernon  did  not  want  just  then  to  see  his  wife's  face. 
He  had  pulled  himself  together  for  a  great  effort.  His 
vanity — the  strongest  thing  in  his  nature — had  received 
an  agonising  blow,  and  as  the  fumes  of  the  whisky  which 
he  had  drunk  rose  to  his  head,  he  could  think  of  nothing 
but  the  vile  thing  which  had  happened.  He  felt  inclined 
to  weep  with  sorrow  for  himself,  with  sympathy  for  his 
own  undeserved  unhappiness. 

"You  evidently  don't  realise  how  serious  this  matter 
is,"  he  said  fiercely.  "I  suppose  it  is  natural  enough  that 
you  shouldn't." 

"Realise  what?" 

"How  the  world  will  regard  this  legacy.  You  can- 
not possibly  accept  it,  Margot.  Believe  me.  ..." 

Margot  sat  bolt  upright  in  her  bed  and  glared  at  him 
through  the  impenetrable  gloom. 

"If  that  is  all  you  have  to  say,  go  out  of  my  room  at 
once,"  she  hissed.  "You  must  be  mad."  She  laughed 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  295 

at  him  scornfully,  a  laugh  of  power,  a  laugh  with  no 
mercy  in  it. 

"If  you  have  to  learn  the  truth  from  other  people 
instead  of  from  me,  you  won't  like  it.  I've  only  come 
to  save  you,  if  I  can,  from  your  own  folly.  You  have 
made  it  quite  clear  that  you  don't  care  a  rap  about  me, 
and  that  you  care  still  less  about  the  family  you  have 
married  into.  You  only  care  about  this  miserable  sum 
of  money.  God  help  you." 

"You  bet,"  said  Margot,  "God  will  help  me  right 
enough.  He  is  grateful  to  me  for  the  trouble  I  save 
Him.  You  are  quite  right  about  my  not  caring  a  fig 
about  the  family.  Why  should  I?  Who  are  they? 
Everyone  knows  your  grandfather  started  life  as  a  coal- 
heaver.  At  least,  the  Cartiers  ..." 

It  was  Vernon's  turn  to  laugh.  He  went  off  into  peals 
of  hysterical,  high-pitched  laughter,  which  goaded  Margot 
to  fury. 

"Don't,  for  heaven's  sake,  turn  on  any  more  about  the 
family,"  she  went  on.  "I  don't  wonder  that  even  you 
laugh  at  yourself.  If  you've  got  anything  to  say,  say 
it,  but  don't  drag  in  the  family.  Fat  lot  I  care  about 
them." 

Vernon's  laughter  stopped  as  abruptly  as  it  had  begun. 

"I  can  tell  you  this,"  he  said,  "that  unless  you  re- 
nounce this  legacy  from  Carl  Frensen,  they  will  never 
have  anything  more  to  do  with  you.  .  .  .  You  were  com- 
promised with  him  sufficiently  before  I  married 
you.  ..." 

"I  was  what,  Vernon?"  Margot  asked  quietly. 

"Compromised;  and  you  know  it.  This  legacy  con- 
firms all  that  your  worst  enemies  ever  said  about  you." 

Margot's  face  flushed  in  the  darkness.  "So  you  have 
been  saving  this  up  all  the  years  of  our  married  life — this 


296  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

vitriol — ready  to  squirt  at  me  whenever  you  thought  the 
moment  had  come!  Thanks,  Vernon.  We  know  where 
we  are,  at  all  events."  Vernon  was  choking  now  with 
emotion.  He  got  up  from  the  bed  and  stumbled  about 
the  room,  trying  to  recover  the  control  of  his  voice. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  he  groaned,  "what  have  I  done?" 

"Made  an  ass  of  yourself,"  Margot  snapped.  "No 
need  to  tell  God  about  it.  He  knows  already." 

He  rushed  at  her  shouting:  "Be  quiet,  will  you!" 
grasping  the  warm  flesh  of  her  upper  arm,  through  her 
silken  night-clothes.  In  an  instant  he  would  have  struck 
her,  but  the  concentrated  fury  of  her  quiet  voice  made 
him  recover  himself. 

"If  you  want  the  servants  to  witness  your  disgusting 
temper,  you  need  not  shout.  I  have  my  hand  on  the 
bell.  I  can  easily  ring  for  Ernestine.  ..." 

Her  arms  smarted  under  the  grip  of  his  frenzied  hands. 
She  knew  how  easily  her  flesh  bruised.  In  a  day  or 
two,  great  green  and  purple  marks  would  become  visible. 
She  would  get  a  doctor,  Ernestine,  all  sorts  of  people  to 
take  note  of  them.  Everyone  would  bear  witness  to  his 
brutality. 

After  his  outburst,  to  Margot's  amazement,  Vernon 
began  to  cry  quietly.  She  could  not  see  his  tears  in  the 
darkness,  but  she  knew  instinctively  that  they  were  fall- 
ing down  his  cheeks.  His  shoulders  were  heaving. 

"Margot,"  he  said,  "it  can't  have  come  to  this  so 
soon.  All  I  want  is  for  you  to  tell  me  frankly  what 
there  was  between  you  and  Frensen  .  .  .  and,  in  any 
case,  to  give  up  this  money.  You  have  all  you  need 
under  your  marriage  settlement.  We  have  plenty  be- 
tween us.  Surely  you  must  see  that,  for  everyone's  sake, 
for  the  sake  of  our  children,  if  we  have  any,  you  can't 
accept  Frensen's  money.  It  would  always  make  some- 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  297 

thing  between  us.  It  would  poison  the  rest  of  our  lives. 
Our  children  when  they  grew  up  would  hear  rumours. 
You  don't  need  this  extra  money.  It  would  be  a  perpet- 
ual open  disgrace  to  both  of  us  if  you  accepted  it.  You 
must  not  do  so,  believe  me.  You  know  mother  is  no  fool 
in  these  matters,  nor  grandfather  either.  They  will  both 
tell  you  just  what  I  have  said  about  it,  to-morrow." 

Margot  snorted:  "What  is  the  good  of  wasting  your 
breath!  If  you  honestly  think  I  shall  give  up  a  legacy 
like  Carl  Frensen's  just  because  your  horrid  family  choose 
to  imagine  all  sorts  of  filth  about  me,  you  must  be  mad. 
I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  am  a  free  agent.  I 
shall  tell  you  nothing  about  'what  there  was  between  me 
and  Frensen.'  I  don't  care  a  fig  what  you  think;  think 
what  you  like.  I've  told  you  to  go  once.  Why  don't  you 
do  so?" 

"If  I  go  now,  I  warn  you,  I  may  never  come  back." 

"Well,  never  come  back  then!  /  never  want  to  see 
you,  after  this." 

"Margot  ..." 

"Oh,  shut  up,  can't  you?"  shouted  Margot.  "Don't 
turn  on  the  sentimental,  'Heartsease  Library'  tap!  I 
can  bear  anything  but  that.  ..." 

"Very  well,"  said  Vernon  quietly.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders  in  the  darkness  and  walked  with  exaggerated 
slowness  across  to  the  door  leading  to  his  room.  For  an 
instant,  when  the  door  opened,  Margot  caught  a  glimpse 
of  him  framed  in  the  sudden  brightness.  His  handsome 
face  was  all  disordered  and  working;  his  moustache  was 
ragged,  his  hair  tousled  and  standing  up  absurdly.  She 
knew  then  that  she  had  struck  him  to  the  heart;  that 
even  if  they  patched  up  a  truce,  things  could  never  be 
the  same  again.  The  breach  was  irreparable;  she  had 
wounded  and  defiled  his  sacred  vanity,  spat  upon  all 


298  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

that  was  most  holy  to  him.     It  would  be  a  point  of 
honour  with  him  not  to  forgive  her. 

"But  it  isn't  in  writing:  and  the  servants  could  not 
have  made  out  anything,"  she  reflected,  "at  least,  nothing 
to  swear  to,  even  if  they  were  listening  at  the  keyhole. 
I  can  make  it  all  right  if  necessary,  and,  any  way,  I 
wouldn't  have  been  beastly  to  him  if  he  hadn't  run 
squealing  to  the  family !"  She  lay  awake  for  some  time 
longer,  and  from  occasional  movements  in  the  next  room 
she  gathered  that  Vernon  also  was  awake.  Finally  she 
fell  into  an  uneasy  sleep  and  dreamed  horrible  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

MARGOT  could  not  but  admire  Vernon's  appearance  the 
next  morning.  He  "played  up"  magnificently.  In 
several  small  ways  he  contrived  to  accentuate  the  pro- 
tective courtesy  which  came  so  easy  to  him  when  he 
chose  to  display  it.  He  was  more  conversational  than 
usual  at  breakfast,  and  Margot  came  nearer  to  respecting 
him  than  she  remembered  to  have  done  before.  She  felt 
that,  after  all,  he  "was  such  a  gentleman."  The  greet- 
ing with  her  mother-in-law  and  the  grandparents  who 
motored  over  together  from  Clevedon,  and  arrived  at 
Hotham  just  before  luncheon,  was  commonplace  in  the 
extreme.  Margot  was  impressed  by  her  relatives' 
"refinement,"  by  their  arrogant  reserve  and  hard  social 
surface.  Only  by  noting  infinitesimal  shades  of  manner 
could  she  discover  any  difference  in  their  treatment  of 
her,  any  indication  of  the  spectre  in  the  background. 
After  luncheon,  when  Margot  sat  with  the  other  women 
in  the  drawing-room  waiting  for  Vernon  to  join  them 
with  his  grandfather,  she  felt  she  could  bear  the  "fine 
reserves"  no  longer. 

"Well,  grandmamma,"  she  said,  "I  suppose  Vernon 
has  told  you  all  about  my  legacy,  and  you  have  turned 
up  to  scold  me  about  it." 

"Not  scold  you,  Margot,"  interposed  Lady  Stokes, 
"you  mustn't  say  that.  But  we  naturally  regard  the 
whole  matter  as  serious.  It  is  more  serious  for  you,  dear, 
than  for  us." 

"What  does  grandmamma  think  of  it?"  Margot  asked, 
wishing  to  give  her  mother-in-law  a  lesson  in  manners. 
Mrs.  Cornewall  lifted  a  fat  little  hand  from  her  lap  and 

299 


300  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

let  it  fall  again.  She  had  aged  very  much  during  the 
last  few  years,  and  found  it  difficult  to  be  serious  about 
anything,  except  in  flashes.  She  was  almost  perpetually 
amused,  and  her  round  grey  eyes  seemed  to  radiate  good 
humour  and  an  enjoyment  of  the  joke.  She  sat  in  her 
gala  costume  of  crimson  satin  trimmed  with  beetle-wing 
embroidery,  with  her  famous  "front"  of  golden-brown 
hair,  holding  her  walking-stick  and  looking  down  con- 
tentedly at  her  tiny  feet. 

"My  dear,  you  mustn't  ask  me,"  she  said,  smiling  at 
Margot.  "I  always  did  like  Cap  Martin,  and  I  remember 
Sir  Carl's  villa  so  well.  What  a  pity  he  didn't  manage  it 
all  through  his  solicitor  quite  quietly  and  tactfully.  Then 
we  should  all  have  been  pleased.  ..." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  mother,"  said  Lady  Stokes 
with  a  faint  smile,  "but  I  admit  it  would  have  made  a 
difference.  You  see  there  is  such  a  thing  as  family 
honour,  Margot,"  she  continued,  turning  to  her  daughter- 
in-law. 

"Why,  of  course !"  said  Margot  dutifully.  "You  must 
not  think  that  I  forget  that  for  an  instant.  But  I  can't 
see  why  this  legacy  from  my  old  friend  should  injure 
it!" 

"Ah— that  is  the  point !" 

"What  is  the  point?"  roared  the  General,  who  came 
into  the  room  at  that  moment  with  Vernon. 

"We  were  just  discussing  my  legacy  from  Carl 
Frensen,"  said  Margot  boldly. 

"Nothing  to  discuss,  my  dear,"  roared  the  ex-tamer  of 
hill-tribes.  He  pulled  his  stubbly  grey  beard  with  his 
astonishingly  small,  fine  hand,  and  stood  looking  like 
some  shaggy  old  sheep-dog  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
"The  only  thing  to  do  with  money  like  that  is  to  refuse 
to  touch  it.  That  is  all!  No  nonsense,  no  palaver. 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  301 

That  is  the  only  way!  No  need  for  any  silly  talk,  as  I 
have  just  been  telling  Vernon.  .  .  .  Now  then,  Margot 
where  is  that  new  garage  that  I'm  to  see!  Get  it  over 
quickly.  Show  me  the  crimes  that  Vernon  has  been 
committing  against  our  old  home." 

Margot  jumped  to  her  feet  and  gave  the  General  her 
arm,  after  first  kissing  him  on  the  forehead.  "You  are 
quite  "right,  grandpapa,"  she  said,  laughing.  "There  is 
a  great  deal  too  much  palaver  about  a  very  simple  matter. 
Let  us  go  and  look  at  the  monstrosity  I" 

As  she  walked  off  with  him,  leaving  Vernon  and  his 
mother  nonplussed  and  the  grandmother,  as  usual,  over- 
come with  laughter,  Margot  visualised  the  old  man 
refusing  gorgeous  bribes  offered  by  native  princes  in 
jewelled  turbans.  He  had  spent  fifty  years  of  his  life 
being  arrogantly  beyond  the  temptation  of  bribes;  no 
wonder,  poor  old  darling,  the  refusal  of  wealth  had  be- 
come with  him  an  idee  fixe.  It  was  his  private  "swank" 
— the  point  of  complacency  which  made  his  old  age  happy 
— to  reflect  on  all  the  diamonds,  the  rubies,  and  the 
solid  gold  which  might  have  been  his  if  he  had  not  been 
incorruptible.  Margot  loved  him  for  it,  and  was  sorry 
that  it  would  be  necessary  to  hurt  him.  They  examined 
together  the  red  brick  erection  of  Vernon's  "art"  archi- 
tect, and  gazed  in  joint  disgust  at  its  little  "Queen  Anne 
style"  turret  surmounted  by  its  gilded  "art"  weather- 
vane! 

"My  dear,"  said  the  old  man,  "entre  nous,  I  think  it 
is  dreadful !  Let  us  escape  from  it  quickly  and  go  down 
to  the  lake." 

They  walked  on  through  the  park,  looking  at  the  red- 
brown,  the  gold,  and  burnished  copper  of  the  autumn 
foliage,  while  the  General  told  Margot  interminable 
stories  of  his  boyhood  at  Hotham,  which  gave  her  a  vivid 


302  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

picture  of  country  life  more  than  sixty  years  ago.  His 
reminiscences  interested  her,  but  they  made  her  realise 
once  again  how  essentially  she  was  a  stranger  at  Hotham. 
The  place,  naturally,  had  quite  a  different  meaning  for 
this  old  man  than  it  had  for  her,  while  to  Vernon  it  was 
as  sacred  as  a  shrine.  They  were  all  of  them  at  home 
here;  she  was  not,  nor  did  she  wish  to  be.  ...  During 
the  rest  of  their  walk,  Margot  and  her  companion,  who 
enjoyed  each  other's  company  and  instinctively  hated 
"unpleasant"  subjects,  avoided  any  further  discussion 
of  the  points  at  issue. 

At  tea-time  the  conversation  also  was  normal;  the 
electricity  in  the  air  did  not  show  itself  in  any  violent 
flashes.  Margot  thought  her  mother-in-law  looked  very 
tired  and  miserable.  She  was  miserable,  Margot 
guessed,  because  of  her  son's  unhappiness ;  she  had  never 
realised  before  the  depths  of  her  mother-in-law's  devo- 
tion to  Vernon.  She  looked  almost  like  a  woman  in 
acute  physical  pain,  and  at  the  back  of  her  dark  eyes 
lurked  the  reflection  of  her  agony. 

"My  dear  Margot,"  she  said  quietly  in  the  hall,  just 
before  the  car  came  round  that  was  to  carry  them  all 
away,  "I  don't  want  you  to  think  that  any  of  us 
blame  you.  We  only  want  you  both  to  be  happy.  It  is 
so  easy  for  married  people  to  make  themselves  wretched, 
to  embitter  their  lives.  And  no  amount  of  wealth  can 
soften  the  misery  of  misunderstandings.  ..." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Margot,  kissing  her  mother-in-law. 
"Don't  you  worry.  Vernon  will  get  over  it  all  right!" 
Lady  Stokes  sank  back  against  the  cushions  of  the  car  as 
if  she  had  been  hit.  If  she  could  have  drawn  a  revolver 
at  that  moment  and  shot  Margot  dead  she  would  have 
done  so  with  exultant  satisfaction.  .  .  . 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  303 

Dinner  that  evening  was  an  ordeal  which  tried  even 
Margot's  nerves.  Vernon's  line,  which  he  did  to  per- 
fection, was  an  easy  affability.  Never  again  would  he 
let  her  see  into  his  heart;  he  would  at  all  costs  deprive 
her  of  the  satisfaction  of  watching  how  she  made  him 
wince.  A  hatred  of  her  grew  up  in  him,  side  by  side 
with  his  passion  for  her,  which  seemed  to  him  now  like 
some  vile  madness  which  he  had  been  too  weak-minded 
to  stamp  out.  She  was  mean,  treacherous,  unfaithful. 
All  these  years  she  had  deceived  him,  had  carried  on  an 
intrigue  with  a  disgusting  old  man.  She  had  done  this 
in  spite  of  all  he  had  done  for  her,  of  all  the  benefits  he 
had  conferred  on  her,  and  of  the  way  he  had  honoured 
her — despite  the  opposition  of  his  family  and  friends — 
by  making  her  his  wife.  Once  he  let  himself  believe  in 
her  guiltiness  as  regards  Frensen ;  all  the  other  insinua- 
tions and  hints  contained  in  the  letter  which  he  had  taken 
from  his  father's  writing-table  came  flocking  back  into 
his  mind.  There  was  nothing  now  which  he  would  not 
believe  of  her.  As  for  her  past,  in  Canada,  who  could 
tell  what  crimes  she  might  not  have  committed?  The 
letter  had  said  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  small  grocer 
and  had  a  very  "lively  reputation"  before  she  had 
imposed  upon  poor  Mr.  Falkenheim.  It  was  no  good; 
you  couldn't  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear. 

Vernon  asked  his  wife  what  "grandpapa's  opinion 
was  about  the  garage"  while  the  butler  moved  round  the 
table  with  dishes,  thinking  all  the  while  these 
thoughts.  Her  loveliness  maddened  him  almost  as  much 
as  her  serenity.  "Bad  blood,"  he  said  to  himself,  "bad 
blood.  It  always  shows  sooner  or  later.  They  were  all 
quite  right ;  father  was  quite  right.  She  would  have  been 
well  enough  as  a  mistress.  ..."  He  watched  his  wife 
helping  herself  from  the  silver  dish  the  butler  carried 


304  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

with  a  peculiar  daintiness  of  gesture  that  was  all  her 
own.  Her  china-blue  eyes  had  never  looked  more  limpid ; 
the  pale  gold  of  her  hair  had  never  seemed  more  fairy- 
like.  She  was  almost  unnaturally  radiant.  He  found 
himself  thinking  how  white  her  shoulders  would  be,  and 
recalling  the  loveliness  of  her  bosom.  But  why  was  she 
wearing  a  high-necked  frock  this  evening?  Had  he  hurt 
her  the  night  before  when  he  had  lost  his  temper?  His 
thoughts  went  backwards,  forwards,  behind  his  mask  of 
small  talk ;  his  growing  hatred  had  to  battle  with  a  rising 
flood  of  passion,  but  sometimes  his  passion  seemed  to 
inflame  his  hatred,  and  then  he  was  frightened  of  himself 
to  think  what  he  might  do.  But  he  would  control  him- 
self; he  would  be  easy  about  it;  the  scene  should  be 
managed  perfectly.  With  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth,  and 
in  a  gently  modulated  voice,  he  would  deliver  his  ulti- 
matum. On  the  morrow,  if  it  were  not  accepted,  he 
would  be  gone.  .  .  .  Never  would  she  be  able  to  say  of 
him  that  he  had  not  been  generous,  high-minded.  He 
blushed  when  he  found  himself  repeating  the  phrase 
noblesse  oblige;  but,  after  all,  that  was  what  it  would 
amount  to.  He  would  have  to  spend  an  uncomfortable 
night  in  an  hotel,  in  the  same  bedroom  as  some  poor 
creature  hired  for  the  purpose — then  in  the  process  of 
time  he  would  be  free.  Thank  God,  there  were  no  child- 
ren to  complicate  matters.  .  .  .  He  thought  of  the  great 
sorrow  that  had  come  over  his  fair  young  life:  but  if  his 
brown  hair  went  a  little  grey  over  the  ears,  he  would  still 
be  "interesting."  He  finished  his  port  wine,  lighted  a 
cigarette,  and  sat  watching  the  chair  which  his  wife  had 
just  vacated.  How  admirably  normal  their  conversation 
during  dinner  had  been.  He  had  to  confess  that  Margot 
had  played  up,  too.  She  was  adaptable,  certainly ;  it  was 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  305 

only  when  you  scratched  the  surface  that  the  common 
blood  spurted  out  at  you     .    .    . 

He  went  into  the  drawing-room  where  his  wife  was 
sitting,  his  head  well  carried.  He  had  a  beautifully 
shaped  head — pure  Cornewall,  he  used  to  say — and  his 
years  in  the  army  had  given  him  a  certain  magnificence 
of  deportment  of  which  he  could  avail  himself  at  will. 
He  settled  himself  in  a  chair  opposite  his  wife,  and  drew 
in  a  mouthful  of  smoke  from  his  cigarette.  "Well, 
Margot?"  he  said  quietly. 

"Well?"  asked  Margot,  burlesquing  his  careful 
suavity. 

"We  have  to  decide  what  we  are  going  to  do,  and  the 
sooner  the  better.  You  have  heard  whatever  my  grand- 
father and  my  mother  had  to  say.  Won't  you  realise 
that  I  meant  it  when  I  told  you  you  must  give  up  this 
legacy  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  realise  it,"  said  Margot,  "and  I  consider  the 
suggestion  an  insult!  Margot  gave  her  hard  laugh. 
Vernon  flushed  and  rose  to  his  feet.  He  paused  for  an 
impressive  moment. 

"You  realise,  of  course,  that  we  cannot  go  on  living 
together  any  longer  after  this?  ...  I  understand  then, 
once  and  for  all,  that  you  will  not  clear  up  this  Frensen 
business  and  renounce  this  legacy?" 

"I  will  not." 

"Very  well.  To-morrow  I  shall  go  away  from  Hotham. 
You  had  better  put  off  all  our  guests  for  next  Monday 
week.  I  shall  not  come  back.  If  you  want  your  free- 
dom you  can  sue  me  for  restitution,  and  at  some  hotel 
or  another  you  will  be  able  to  make  the  usual  inquiries. 
Our  marriage  has  been  a  ghastly  failure.  But  I  dare  say 
the  fault  was  mine  as  much  as  yours,"  he  added,  with 


3o6  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

insincere  magnanimity.  "In  any  case,  I  don't  want  you 
to  suffer.  Within  a  year  you  will  be  able  to  marry  some- 
one else.  Good-bye."  He  threw  his  cigarette  into  the 
fire  and  looked  at  her.  Her  face  was  motionless,  not  a 
muscle  twitched. 

"Good-bye,  Vernon,"  she  said  quietly.  "You  shall 
have  your  freedom  as  quickly  as  the  lawyers  can  arrange 
things.  I  should  try  Ida  Mertoun  next  if  I  were  you. 
She'll  fit  the  situation  splendidly,  and  you  will  be  able 
to  read  the  whole  of  Meredith's  novels  to  each  other  and 
patronise  the  entire  county!  Well,  good-bye  and  good 
luck!" 

She  smiled  at  him  lightly  as  he  turned  on  his  heel 
and  went  out.  But  what  a  good  looking  fellow  he  was, 
and  how  his  fingers  had  gripped  her  shoulder  the  night 
before !  Those  marks  would  come  in  useful,  by  the  way. 
It  would  be  necessary  to  prove  cruelty.  She  would  have 
to  show  them  to  Ernestine  and  to  a  doctor.  She  must 
suffer  from  "shock"  to-morrow  as  a  result  of  poor  old 
Vernon's  "brutality"! 

Well,  it  was  a  pity  he  was  such  a  fool.  Looking  back 
on  her  life  with  him,  as  she  already  began  to  do,  she 
realised  that  she  had  never  liked  him  so  much  as  in  the 
moment  when  he  had  lost  his  temper  with  her  and  nearly 
struck  her.  .  .  .  Perhaps  if  he  had  done  so  quite,  things 
might  have  been  different.  How  could  she  tell?  Her 
nature  had  its  secrets,  even  from  herself.  But  he  had 
not  struck  her;  his  "fine  reserves,"  as  usual,  had  pre- 
vented him.  Yes,  that  had  always  been  the  trouble  with 
Vernon — his  "consciousness."  During  all  the  time  she 
had  known  him  she  could  only  recall  one  spontaneous 
action  on  his  part — when  he  had  gripped  her  shoulders. 
And  even  that  one  had  been  broken  off  short. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

WHATEVER  Margot  may  have  thought  in  the  bottom  of 
her  heart  was  likely  to  be  the  upshot  of  her  quarrel  with 
Vernon,  all  doubts  were  set  at  rest  as  soon  as  she  woke 
on  the  following  morning.  "Sir  Vernon  caught  the  early 
train,"  Ernestine  remarked  in  reply  to  Margot's  question 
as  to  whether  her  husband  had  started  yet.  "Andrews 
gave  me  this  letter  for  you,  Milady,"  Ernestine  went  on, 
handing  her  mistress  an  envelope  addressed  in  Vernon's 
handwriting.  "Sir  Vernon  left  instruction  that  it  was 
to  be  given  you  as  soon  as  you  were  awake.  Andrews 
went  up  to  London  with  Sir  Vernon.  They  started  pack- 
ing at  six  o'clock,  Milady." 

Margot  made  some  reply  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice  that 
should  make  it  appear  that  she  knew  all  about  her  hus- 
band's movements,  while  she  opened  his  letter. 
Evidently  Vernon  had  been  discreet;  Ernestine  had  no 
suspicion  that  there  was  "anything  wrong."  Vernon's 
letter  was  unexpectedly  businesslike;  there  was  not  a 
word  in  it  of  sentiment  or  of  regret.  He  made  sugges- 
tions as  to  what  should  be  written  to  their  invited  guests. 
The  men  he  would  communicate  with  himself;  but  it 
was  important  that  her  letters  to  the  women  who  had 
been  asked  should  contain  excuses  which  tallied  with 
his.  Then  there  followed  money  arrangements,  which 
had  been  carefully  thought  out  with  a  view  to  her  con- 
venience and  comfort,  and  some  final  advice  as  to  what 
she  should  write  to  the  vario'us  members  of  the  family. 
The  letter  was,  in  truth,  a  model  of  magnanimity. 
Margot  had  to  take  a  hard  pull  at  herself  to  avoid  giving 
way  to  depression  after  reading  it.  Vernon  was  not, 

307 


308  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

after  all,  such  a  contemptible  object  as  she  had  been  apt 
to  think.  He  was  long-suffering;  but  when  he  acted,  he 
acted  with  decision  and  promptitude,  and  his  actions 
were  irrevocable.  There  could  be  no  going  back  now,  no 
compromise  or  discussion.  The  discussions  were  all  over. 
She  realised  that  her  husband  was  not  merely  conceited, 
he  was  proud  as  well,  and  this  pride  she  respected.  With 
the  reaction  after  the  nervous  excitements  of  the  last 
few  weeks  culminating  in  this  final  parting,  there  came  a 
revulsion  of  feeling  which  she  could  not  stem.  She 
cursed  her  feminine  weakness,  but  she  could  not  help  it. 
All  the  good  points  about  Vernon  came  flocking  into  her 
thoughts.  She  had  belonged  first  to  him;  he,  after  all, 
was  the  only  man  who  had  ever  possessed  her.  Even 
if  he  were  pompous  and  vain,  he  was  also  beautiful  and 
brave,  every  inch  a  man.  She  had  never  seen  him  show 
fear.  She  recalled  one  or  two  occasions  when  they  had 
been  in  danger.  How  proud  of  him  she  had  always  been 
in  a  crisis !  He  was  her  ideal  of  the  courageous  soldier. 
If  there  were  ever  a  war,  she  thought,  Vernon  would 
have  his  chance.  Both  he  and  all  the  men  of  his  type 
were  survivals  from  some  less  complicated,  more 
picturesque  age.  They  didn't  belong  to  "to-day"  in  the 
least:  and  she  did.  That  was  the  secret  of  the  incom- 
patibility of  Vernon's  temperament  and  her  own.  But 
now  that  he  was  gone,  an  unsuspected  streak  of  senti- 
mentality in  her  nature  made  her  yearn  for  him.  She 
knew  that  this  was  only  a  momentary  weakness,  that 
she  would  recover  in  a  little  while,  that  her  clear  brain 
had  not  misled  her.  But  as  she  roamed  about  the  empty 
house,  with  the  tension  of  her  nerves  relaxed,  the 
desire  to  hide  herself  and  weep  overcame  her.  She  felt 
friendless  and  despondent.  There  seemed  to  be  no  place 
in  all  the  world  where  she  belonged.  She  had  always 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  309 

felt  a  stranger  at  Hotham.  It  was  her  own  fault:  she 
had  never  taken  the  trouble  to  identify  herself  completely 
with  the  place  and  its  inhabitants.  As  things  had  fallen 
out,  this  was,  perhaps,  just  as  well.  But  would  she  find 
it  different  when  she  came  to  live  in  the  homes  she  had 
inherited?  Would  she  not  always  be  restless,  a  wanderer 
on  the  face  of  the  earth,  unsatisfied  until  the  day  of  her 
death?  No,  surely  her  luck  would  not  desert  her. 
Godfrey  would  always  be  near  at  hand.  She  could  not 
dwell  on  the  idea  of  future  happiness  without  including 
Godfrey  in  the  picture.  Perhaps  it  was  his  positiveness 
that  was  so  comforting.  He  was  never  negative  like 
Vernon.  There  were  always  things  he  wanted  her  to  do, 
and  she  dimly  realised  that  life  with  him,  if  she  married 
him,  might  resolve  itself  into  a  continuous  indulgence 
in  the  spiritual  sensuality  of  obedience.  What  a  comfort 
it  would  be — for  a  time,  at  all  events — to  be  ordered 
about,  to  be  told  when  to  rise  and  when  to  rest,  when 
to  eat  and  when  to  leave  off !  She  longed  to  be  set  free 
for  a  while  from  the  bondage  of  her  own  caprices.  Her 
marriage  with  Vernon  had  been  hopeless  from  the 
beginning.  They  had  never  had  a  chance  together.  He 
had  not  understood  her  at  all,  and  until  now  she  had 
hardly  understood  herself.  .  .  . 

The  hours  which  followed  Vernon's  departure  were  the 
longest  she  could  remember  since  the  day  she  had  spent 
at  the  St.  Pancras  Hotel  after  her  ignominious  ejection 
from  Richbourne  Terrace.  She  had  never  anticipated 
for  a  moment  that  her  parting  from  Vernon — in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  she  certainly  did  not  love  him — would  prove 
so  upsetting.  It  is  one  thing,  she  discovered,  to  plan  a 
line  of  action  in  one's  brain,  another  thing  to  put  it 
successfully  into  execution  and  to  be  faced  with  the 
result. 


310  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

When  Ernestine  came  in  to  help  her  dress  for  dinner, 
she  found  her  mistress  in  tears,  and  with  the  ready  tact 
of  the  Frenchwoman  slid  on  to  her  knees  by  Margot's 
side  and  grasped  her  hand,  pouring  out  respectful  endear- 
ments in  her  native  tongue.  This  display  of  affection  on 
the  part  of  her  maid  increased  Margot's  emotionalism  to 
a  point  when  she  began  to  enjoy  it.  Her  dramatic  sense, 
inherited  from  the  mother  she  had  never  known,  was 
aroused.  She  could  see  herself  sitting  before  her  dress- 
ing-table in  her  great  bedroom,  with  bent  gold  head  and 
heaving  shoulders,  her  sympathetic  handmaiden  in  a  heap 
on  the  floor  by  her  side.  The  picture  would  be  called 
"The  Young  Wife,"  and  crowds  would  gape  at  it  on  the 
walls  of  the  Academy  and  "wonder  what  had  happened" ! 
Some  time  or  another  Ernestine  would  have  to  be  told 
what  had  happened  in  order  that  she  might  corroborate 
the  distressing  story  in  court,  and  it  seemed  to  Margot 
that  it  might  as  well  be  now  as  later.  So  amid  her  tears 
she  contrived  to  take  Ernestine  into  her  confidence  as 
to  the  cause  of  her  grief.  She  let  her  maid  help  her 
undress,  for  she  wanted  to  have  a  bath  before  dinner, 
and  this  gave  her  the  opportunity  she  needed  of  show- 
ing Ernestine  the  marks  of  Vernon's  brutality.  Rather 
to  Margot's  annoyance,  Ernestine  seemed  to  regard  these 
marks  with  composure,  almost,  indeed,  with  a  smile. 
This  would  not  do  at  all,  so  she  contrived  to  be  seized 
with  a  fresh  paroxysm  of  weeping,  and  threw  herself 
sobbing  on  to  her  bed,  declaring  that  she  would  have  no 
bath  and  no  dinner,  and  that  she  only  wanted  to  die, 
she  was  so  miserable. 

"Milady  must  see  the  doctor,"  said  Ernestine,  all 
solicitude  now  and  anxiety,  and  alive  at  last  to  the 
necessities  of  the  situation.  Margot  continued  to  weep 
silently.  The  light  in  her  room  was  carefully  shaded  by 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  311 

Ernestine,  and  a  handkerchief  soaked  in  eau  de  Cologne 
was  applied  by  the  maid  to  her  fevered  forehead,  while 
the  doctor  was  being  sent  for.  Margot  was  quite  able  to 
handle  Doctor  Morison,  though  the  proceedings  were 
beginning  rather  to  bore  her.  He  was  a  young  doctor, 
new  to  the  neighbourhood,  and  was  much  moved  by  the 
greenish  bruises  on  the  soft  white  flesh  of  Margot's 
shoulders.  Sympathy  positively  exuded  from  him.  He 
prescribed  for  nervous  collapse,  but  in  parting  was 
inspired  to  urge  that  half  a  bottle  of  champagne  often 
had  a  wonderfully  tonic  effect  on  the  system.  In  reply 
to  Margot's  inquiry,  he  also  agreed  that  a  change  of  air 
would  be  the  best  thing  possible  for  her  as  soon  as  she 
felt  strong  enough  to  move! 

By  the  next  morning  Margot  felt  strong  enough  for 
anything,  and  she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  could 
not  stay  on  at  Hotham  a  single  hour  longer  than  was 
necessary.  She  wanted  excitement,  something  to  take 
her  out  of  herself,  to  make  her  forget.  She  would  have 
liked  to  rush  up  to  London,  to  drive  straight  to  Levett's 
flat,  and  tell  him  all  about  what  had  happened;  but  a 
feeling  of  shyness  restrained  her  even  from  writing  to 
him.  Later  on  it  would  be  different,  when  she  was  free. 

She  thought  next  of  Vivie  Nugent.  But  on  reflection 
she  decided  that  she  was  afraid  of  Vivie's  shrewd,  clever 
eyes,  of  her  disconcerting  intuitions.  And  wherever  Vivie 
was,  there  was  always  an  accompaniment  of  noise — a 
dainty,  exciting  noise — but  still  noise.  And  she  did  not 
feel  that  just  then  her  nerves  would  stand  it,  nor  the 
strain  of  watching  her  words  in  order  to  avoid  giving 
herself  away.  The  only  other  refuge  she  could  think  of 
was  Kingsworth.  If  she  could  put  in  a  week  or  two  with 
Mary  Henderson  and  turn  her  into  a  staunch  ally,  it 
would  be  an  excellent  move.  On  the  other  hand,  Mary 


312  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

was  so  terribly  high-minded;  and  she  would  be  sure  to 
have  heard  of  Carl  Frensen's  legacy.  Margot  realised 
that  there  is  nothing  like  a  thoroughly  good  woman  for 
putting  two  and  two  together  and  making  eight.  All  the 
same,  she  had  an  almost  superstitious  feeling  that  Kings- 
worth  was  a  good  place  to  go  to.  Sometimes  she  thought 
she  owed  the  fact  that  she  was  where  she  was — and  not 
some  poor  little  struggling  derelict,  sucked  back  into 
Montreal  by  the  return  of  the  wave — almost  entirely  to 
the  Hendersons.  It  was  their  role  to  lend  her  moral 
support!  She  would  have  Mary  telephoned  to  and  see 
what  she  said.  .  .  . 

Mary  Henderson  expressed  great  pleasure  at  the  pros- 
pect of  receiving  a  visit  from  Margot,  and  invited  her 
to  go  over  to  Kingsworth  on  the  following  day  in  time  for 
luncheon,  promising  her  the  room  which  she  had  occupied 
when  she  had  stayed  there  before  her  marriage.  The 
next  move  being  thus  decided  on,  Margot's  feeling  of 
nervelessness  and  misery  vanished.  She  was  always 
happy  when  she  had  settled  exactly  what  to  do  and  had 
only  to  go  straight  ahead  and  do  it.  The  next  morning, 
as  the  miles  increased  which  separated  her  from  Hotham, 
her  spirits  rose.  She  was  still  young  enough  to  enjoy 
putting  away  the  past  and  forging  ahead  into  the  future. 
She  lifted  up  the  speaking-tube  and  told  the  chauffeur  to 
hurry  whenever  he  saw  a  chance,  and  in  a  little  while 
she  observed  that  the  hand  of  the  speedometer  had  moved 
round  from  thirty  to  forty.  She  lowered  the  window  of 
the  car,  letting  in  a  gust  of  damp  autumnal  air  which 
chilled  her  through  her  furs,  but  at  the  same  time  made 
her  heart  beat  faster  with  excitement. 

It  was  just  one  o'clock  when  the  car  swung  through 
the  lodge  gates  at  Kingsworth,  and  surged  up  the  drive 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  313 

towards  the  portico.  The  ringing  of  the  bell  fixed  in  the 
little  belfry  over  the  class-rooms  at  the  back  of  the  house 
reminded  Margot  that  it  was  term  time,  and  that  all  the 
little  boys  and  the  weedy  assistant-masters  would  be  in 
residence.  Mary  came  out  into  the  portico  just  as  she 
emerged  from  the  car  and  kissed  her  affectionately,  and 
in  another  moment  Adam  came  through  the  green  baize 
door  which  led  into  the  boys'  quarters  and  shook  hands 
with  her.  Margot  noticed  that  he  had  chalk  on  his 
fingers,  and  also  that  Mary's  brown  shoes  were  terribly 
"sensible."  She  reproached  herself  for  noticing  such 
details,  but  it  was  no  good  her  pretending  to  have  re- 
mained where  she  was.  She  felt  she  must  be  so  changed 
from  the  raw  girl  who  had  come  to  stay  in  this  house 
such  a  few  short  years  ago  as  to  be  almost  unrecognisable. 
She  became  gradually  conscious,  after  a  day  or  two, 
that  neither  Mary  nor  Adam  really  liked  her  as  much, 
now,  as  they  had  done  before  her  marriage.  She  set 
herself  to  try  to  win  back  their  affection.  Her  obvious 
delight  at  revisiting  Kings  worth  helped  her  in  this.  She 
found  the  house  and  village  as  charming  as  ever.  Old 
John  Vile  was  still  alive,  and  Mrs.  Holden  and  Rosie  and 
the  crabbed  old  doctor — she  renewed  her  acquaintance 
with  them  all.  She  did  not  tell  Mary  immediately  about 
Vernon's  desertion,  for  she  was  afraid  her  friend  would 
have  heard  of  Frensen's  legacy  and  might  be  silently 
condemning  her.  She  had  not  yet  succeeded  in  growing 
out  of  her  wholesome  awe  of  Mary's  clear  and  penetrating 
blue  eyes,  and  before  bestowing  her  confidence  she  looked 
about  for  some  way  of  ensuring  for  it  a  good  reception. 
Mary's  latest  enthusiasm,  now  that  the  creche  was  in 
full  working  order,  was  the  ''Women's  Poor- Law  Admin- 
istration League."  Her  eyes  gleamed  with  the  bright 
fire  of  her  enthusiasm  whenever  the  mystic  letters 


3H  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

"W.P.L.A.L."  were  mentioned.  Margot  could  not  help 
connecting  the  new  "movement"  with  Mary's  sensible 
brown  shoes,  her  disinfectants,  and  her  fad  for  lukewarm 
baths  and  draughts  (otherwise  "fresh  air").  It  was  all 
so  excellent  and  so  uncomfortable !  Three  years  ago  she 
might  have  fallen  a  victim  and  caught  the  enthusiasm; 
but  marriage  had  at  least  rendered  her  immune  from 
movements.  She  found,  however,  that  whenever  she 
listened  to  Mary's  remarks  about  the  "W.P.L.A.L."  her 
friend's  attitude  of  reserve  vanished,  and  that  the  more 
interest  in  it  she  affected,  the  more  friendly  became 
Mary's  manner  towards  her.  She  decided  to  take  a  pull 
at  herself  and  go  with  Mrs.  Henderson  to  a  meeting  at 
Dorchester.  It  was  an  agonising  experience,  but  the 
effect  on  Mary  of  her  simulated  adherence  to  the  cause 
was  almost  miraculous.  It  was  just  after  her  return 
from  this  meeting,  in  the  hour  before  dinner,  that  she 
elected  to  tell  Mary  her  story  of  Vernon's  desertion. 
The  appeal  to  Mary's  kind  heart  met  with  complete 
success.  Mrs.  Henderson  could  think  no  evil  of  a  sup- 
porter of  the  "W.P.L.A.L."  She  embraced  Margot  and 
"mothered"  her  with  a  tenderness  which  she  could  not 
have  shown  to  anyone  who  was  not  a  "sympathiser." 

"My  poor  darling !  It  is  dreadful  for  you.  You  know 
you  can  rely  on  us  to  do  anything  we  can  to  help  you. 
I  feel  sure  he  will  come  back;  but  if  he  doesn't,  of 
course,  you  must  have  your  freedom.  If  you  really  must 
leave  us  to-morrow,  Adam  will  take  you  up  to  London 
and  go  with  you  to  his  solicitors.  Mr.  Short  is  such  a 
clever,  splendid  man.  I  am  sure  you  couldn't  be  in  better 
hands!" 

After  this,  Adam  was  called  into  the  consultation,  and 
Margot  could  not  forbear  a  secret  chuckle  as  she  observed 
the  gusto  with  which  he  filled  the  part  of  "heavy  father." 


M ARGOTS  PROGRESS  315 

She  wondered  if  he  would  have  been  quite  so  kind  and 
fatherly  and  ready  to  accompany  her  to  Messrs.  Mackie- 
son,  Sutton,  and  Short  if  she  had  been  plain  Maggie 
Carter  instead  of  the  beautiful  Lady  Stokes.  She  knew 
it  was  odious  of  her  to  think  thoughts  like  these,  but  she 
could  not  help  it.  She  did  not  like  Adam  any  the  less 
because  she  saw  some  of  her  own  qualities  reflected  in 
him.  He  was  partly  good  and  partly  foolish — just  like 
Mary — just  like  all  the  world — and  really  not  so  very 
much  more  of  a  humbug  than  anybody  else. 

On  the  morning  of  her  departure  for  London  with 
Adam,  Margot  took  Mrs.  Henderson  aside  and  begged  as 
a  great  favour  that  she  might  be  allowed  to  write  her  a 
cheque  for  £100  for  the  fund  that  was  being  raised  for 
the  "W.P.L.A.L."  It  had  given  her  a  new  interest  in  life, 
she  said,  and  she  would  never  cease  to  be  grateful  to 
Mary  for  having  told  her  about  the  movement.  Mary 
Henderson  positively  beamed,  and  Margot  realised  that, 
after  the  first  few  tentative  prods,  she  had  triumphantly 
succeeded  in  touching  her  friend's  heart.  Her  reputa- 
tion, in  one  quarter  at  least,  had  been  secured.  What- 
ever unpleasant  rumours  the  Stokes  family  might  choose 
to  circulate  about  Carl  Frensen's  legacy,  they  would  gain 
no  credence  here.  .  .  . 

Margot  did  not  go  to  Charles  Street  while  she  was 
engaged  in  consultations  with  Messrs.  Mackieson,  Sutton, 
and  Short,  but  instead  took  rooms  for  Ernestine  and 
herself  in  a  small  hotel  in  Albemarle  Street. 

Any  illusions  she  might  have  entertained  as  to  the 
"ease"  with  which  divorce  proceedings  could  be  started 
and  carried  through,  were  quickly  shattered.  Vernon  did 
everything  that  could  possibly  have  been  required  of  him, 
and  quickly  put  the  necessary  evidence  of  "misconduct" 


316  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

at  her  disposal;  but,  in  spite  of  this,  her  equivocal  posi- 
tion, the  constant  visits  to  the  offices  of  Mr.  Short,  and 
the  endless  consultations  exasperated  her  beyond  bearing. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  the  tonic  of  Godfrey  Levett's  firm 
advice  and  his  rock-like  insistence  on  what  she  should 
do — together  with  the  stimulating  excitement  of  a  visit 
to  her  Paris  inheritance — she  felt  she  would  have  col- 
lapsed under  the  strain.  Mr.  Short,  for  a  lawyer,  seemed 
to  ramble  amazingly  from  the  point.  He  had  a  chubby 
red  face  very  carefully  shaved,  and  talked  in  a  suave, 
caressing  tenor.  Margot  felt  that  if  she  had  given  him 
the  slightest  encouragement  he  would  have  patted  her 
hand  or  offered  her  a  biscuit  and  a  glass  of  port  wine. 
He  enraged  her  by  attempting  to  "spare  her  feelings" 
instead  of  getting  on  with  the  matter  in  hand.  .  .  . 

She  saw  as  much  as  she  could  of  Godfrey,  though  her 
excessive  nervousness  prevented  her  from  meeting  him 
except  in  public  restaurants  or  at  her  hotel.  At  Christmas 
she  went  to  her  villa  at  Cap  Martin  with  Vivie  Nugent, 
who  was  always  prepared  to  be  useful  if  it  were  really 
made  worth  her  while  (and  Cap  Martin  was  worth 
anyone's  while!). 

The  delights  of  the  Villa  des  Roses,  a  lovely  house 
which  gleamed  white  amid  the  trees  on  the  Monaco  side 
of  the  wooded  promontory,  just  under  the  rocks  of 
Roquebrune,  ought  to  have  been  enough  to  make  the  most 
worried  soul  contented.  But  Margot  could  find  no  peace 
yet.  She  liked  men,  and  the  absence  of  Frensen  and  of 
Godfrey,  even  of  Vernon,  made  her  feel  lonely  and  her 
life  seem  insipid.  She  returned  to  the  Avenue  Hoche 
at  the  end  of  March,  but  nervousness  restrained  her  from 
going  to  London  until  it  was  absolutely  necessary.  Her 
case  had  been  postponed  until  after  the  Easter  recess, 
when  it  was  the  first  on  the  list.  Even  if  everything 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  317 

went  off  well,  she  could  not  be  free  until  the  beginning  of 
October.  The  publicity  (though,  thank  Heaven!  there 
were  no  dreadful  letters  to  be  read,  nor  the  evidence  of 
nasty-minded  servants  to  be  elicited  by  gloating  counsel) 
was  odious  to  her.  The  society  papers  published  her 
photograph  and  Vernon's,  while  the  Duchess  of  Stretton 
happened  not  to  be  looking  in  her  direction  when  she 
passed  her  in  New  Bond  Street.  The  whole  business  was 
agonising!  And  yet  everything  was  made  as  easy  for 
her  as  possible.  She  was  given  her  decree  nisi,  and  there 
was  nothing  in  the  proceedings  except  the  interest  attach- 
ing to  her  husband's  name,  out  of  which  a  newspaper 
paragraph  could  be  made. 

After  it  was  all  over,  she  determined  to  leave  England 
for  France  until  the  six  months  had  expired  and  she  was 
free.  On  the  day  before  the  one  on  which  she  had  ar- 
ranged to  start,  the  need  to  see  Godfrey  once  more  was 
too  much  for  her,  and  she  wired  to  ask  him  to  dine  with 
her  quietly  that  evening  at  her  hotel. 

Levett  had  to  put  off  another  dinner  engagement  in 
order  to  accept,  but  while  he  was  dressing,  it  occurred 
to  him  with  uncomfortable  vividness  that  there  wasn't 
much  that  he  was  not  prepared  to  do  for  her  nowadays — 
little  devil  that  she  was!  He  didn't  know  how  she  had 
managed  to  get  so  out  of  hand!  While  he  was  driving 
to  Albermarle  Street  he  felt  a  regret,  that  was  almost  like 
physical  pain,  to  think  that  Margot  was  going  away  from 
London  for  so  long,  was  going  away  without  once  coming 
to  see  him  in  his  flat.  Always,  since  her  split  with 
Vernon,  their  meetings  had  taken  place  in  public — at 
restaurants,  in  the  Park,  at  theatres.  He  had  never 
liked  the  idea  of  females  entering  his  flat ;  it  was  one  of 
his  particular  personal  fads.  But  since  the  time  when 
Margot  had  first  invaded  his  rooms,  on  the  day  they  went 


318  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

to  see  the  loan  collection  at  the  Cork  Street  Galleries, 
they  had  never  seemed  quite  complete  without  her.  He 
often  thought  of  the  contrast  which  her  fair  hair  had 
made  against  his  black  silk  cushions,  and  after  she  had 
gone  that  day  it  had  seemed  as  though  her  ghost  had 
remained  behind.  Her  ghost,  shadowy  and  elusive,  had 
haunted  him  ever  since;  nothing  would  "lay"  it,  he 
felt  sure,  but  the  presence  once  again  of  Margot  herself, 
sitting  in  the  same  armchair,  with  her  hat  laid  on  the 
table  .  .  . 

Margot  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  lounge  when  he  got 
to  Smith's  hotel.  He  thought  she  looked  pale  and  very 
tired,  and  her  clear,  china-blue  eyes  had  a  strained  look 
as  though  she  were  in  pain.  "I  wish  it  were  all  over, 
Godfrey,  and  I  were  a  free  woman,"  she  said  as  they  sat 
down,  in  the  dull  English  dining-room,  to  their  exquisitely 
cooked  French  dinner.  I  just  couldn't  bear  it,  if  any- 
thing happened  now.  I'm  going  over  to  Paris,  and  I 
shall  stay  there  until  I'm  out  of  quarantine.  Mary 
Henderson  is  coming  over  for  a  week  to  help  me  with 
the  servants,  and  I  shall  enjoy  setting  up  a  household  of 
my  very  own.  But  I  wish  it  were  all  over !" 

Godfrey  laughed  at  her  anxieties.  "My  dear,  there 
won't  be  any  hitch.  The  King's  Proctor  isn't  as  formid- 
able as  all  that.  Besides,  I'm  sure  you  had  the  ardent 
sympathy  of  the  court.  Nothing  could  have  gone  off 
better." 

"Well,  anyway,  I  feel  just  about  dead,  I  can  tell  you. 
I  don't  believe  I  could  have  faced  it  if  I'd  known  what 
if  would  be  like.  I  don't  believe  it  was  all  worth 
while.  ..." 

"Don't  you?"  he  asked,  glancing  up  at  her  out  of  his 
queer  grey  eyes.  "I  wish  I  could  make  you  think  it 
was,  my  dear!" 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  319 

Margot  looked  away  and  did  not  reply,  until  the  waiter 
tactfully  brought  the  filet  de  sole  bonne  femme. 

"I  do  love  sole  cooked  with  whitebait,  don't  you?" 
she  said.  "It's  one  of  the  things  they  do  best  here.  I 
think  the  chef  must  have  come  from  Giro's." 

Godfrey  chuckled  at  her  sophistication  and  adroitness, 
but  the  faint  flush  which  he  noticed  was  enough  to  save 
his  amour-propre.  They  went  on  discussing  food;  and 
this  brought  them,  by  easy  stages,  to  Paris.  "Now,  I 
hope  you  won't  decide  to  live  in  Paris  indefinitely 
instead  of  in  London.  You  are  much  too  good  for  Paris, 
Margot,"  said  Godfrey,  climbing  on  to  one  of  his  tubs. 
"Paris  is  the  spiritual  home  of  all  cheap  minds — the 
paradise  of  the  second-rate.  Clothes  and  cooking  and 
robbing  foreigners  are  the  only  things  in  which  the 
Parisians  are  really  supreme.  You  will  get  sick  to  death 
of  the  place  in  a  month  or  two.  Wait  till  you  see  it  when 
it  rains;  you  will  want  to  commit  suicide  for  sheer 
misery.  Underneath  its  froth  of  'pleasure'  it  is  the 
gloomiest  city  in  Europe !  The  only  good  thing  about  it 
is  the  fact  that  we  first  met  one  another  there !  London 
is  the  place  for  you,  my  dear.  London  is  so  huge,  so 
alive,  so  full  of  changing  colour  and  movement,  so  subtle 
and  haunting.  You  will  get  to  the  end  of  Paris  soon 
enough;  you  will  never  get  to  the  end  of  London.  Let 
me  keep  my  eyes  open  while  you  are  away  for  a  really 
charming  house  for  you.  ..." 

"Bless  your  heart,"  said  Margot,  laughing.  "It  isn't 
where  I  live  that  I  care  about  so  much  now  ..."  She 
left  the  rest  of  her  sentence  unspoken,  smiled,  and  looked 
away  from  him. 

They  had  finished  dinner  and  were  sitting  in  the  lounge 
over  their  coffee  and  cigarettes.  Both  were  conscious  of 
an  inability  to  say  the  things  they  wanted  to  say,  and  a 


320  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

feeling  of  depression  invaded  them  at  the  same  moment. 
At  the  next  table  two  fat  and  richly  jewelled  women  were 
discussing  the  iniquities  of  a  third.  Their  jarring  voices 
made  a  discordant  background  to  this  unsatisfactory 
parting.  Soon  after  the  clock  struck  ten  Godfrey  decided 
that  it  was  no  use  staying  any  longer,  and  got  up  to  go. 

"Shall  I  come  over  and  see  you?"  he  asked,  "or  do  you 
propose  to  retire  completely  from  the  world  for  the  next 
six  months?" 

"No,  Godfrey,  I  don't  think  you'd  better  come  and  see 
me.  I'll  let  you  know  as  soon  as  I'm  free." 

Godfrey  wished  her  a  pleasant  journey  and  chaffed  her 
with  gentle  mockery  about  her  subjection  to  Mrs.  Grundy, 
while  they  shook  hands  with  conventional  indifference. 
As  it  was  a  fine  night  he  turned  into  the  Park  for  half 
an  hour  before  going  back  to  his  flat.  He  was  more 
moved  and  upset  than  he  cared  to  acknowledge.  He 
hated  the  thought  that  Margot  was  going  away,  that  he 
would  not  see  her  for  six  months ;  and  even  more  than 
this,  he  hated  their  dull  and  flat  farewell. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

AFTER  Margot's  departure  from  London,  Levett  was 
annoyed  with  himself  for  the  feeling  of  restlessness  which 
came  over  him.  He  did  not  like  these  symptoms;  they 
had  a  certain  unpleasant  familiarity — "What's  this  dull 
town  to  me?"  and  so  on.  In  order  to  prevent  himself 
from  thinking  about  her,  he  made  a  point  of  going  out 
more  than  usual.  The  season  this  year  was  more  hectic 
than  ever ;  the  peculiar  gay  frenzy  of  rag-time  seemed  to 
permeate  London  life.  It  was  as  though  the  whole  world 
of  London  society  had  started  dancing  and  could 
not  stop.  It  would  need  something  like  an  earthquake 
— or  the  Day  of  Judgment — to  break  the  spell.  Godf  rey's 
last  play  had  brought  him  in  more  than  all  the  others 
put  together,  and  as  he  had  contracted  the  Night  Club 
habit,  he  managed  to  amuse  himself  almost  as  much  as 
usual.  But  all  the  time  he  was  consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously looking  forward  to  a  day,  towards  the  end  of 
October,  when  Margot  would  write  to  him,  and  he 
would  see  her  again.  Would  she  keep  her  promise,  and 
if  she  did,  what  should  he  say  to  her?  The  girls — mostly 
stage  beauties,  whose  kindness  to  a  man  who  might  be 
able  to  get  them  speaking  parts  knew  no  limits — with 
whom  he  supped  and  danced  at  Martin's  or  The  Five 
Hundred,  instead  of  making  him  forget  Margot,  only 
succeeded  in  reminding  him  of  her  by  suggesting  com- 
parisons. It  was  Margot's  virtue,  perhaps,  that  most 
attracted  him.  She  did  not  smoke  too  many  cigarettes 
or  drink,  except  in  extreme  moderation;  shje  had  a  self- 
control,  a  restraint  in  her  indulgences,  which  captivated 
him.  He  disliked  abandon  in  women,  even  when  the 

321 


322  MARGOTS  PROGRESS 

excitement  of  it  went  to  his  head  and  carried  him  away. 
Perhaps  it  was  that  he  was  becoming  middle-aged  and 
had  grown  out  of  it.    He  did  not  think  he  would  ever 
grow  out  of  Margot ;  and  he  had  never  seen  a  woman's 
figure  that  so  magnificently  bore  clothing.     The  differ- 
ence between  Margot  and  the  other  women  he  met  lay 
largely  in  the  fact  that  she  had  character,  the  others 
only    appetites.      He    had    always    been    interested    in 
Margot  from  the  moment  when  he  had  first  met  her  at 
the  picture  shop  in  the  Rue  Laffitte  with  Israel  Falken- 
heim.      Since    then    he    had    watched    her    progress 
"upwards"  with  continuous  amusement  and  apprecia- 
tion.    He  had  no  illusions  about  her;  her  crudity,  her 
selfishness,  and  the  vulgarity  of  her  ambitions  did  not 
escape  him.    But  he  saw,  as  well,  that  there  was  some- 
thing strong  and  valuable  in  her  personality:  something 
gay,  determined,  and  elusive.    He  loved  her  pluck,  her 
fiery,  undaunted  nature.    She  had  the  fascination  which 
so  often  clings  to  very  self-centred  people,  and  her  points 
of  view  were  refreshing  in  their  daring  commonsense. 
He  rejoiced  in  the  consideration  which  she  had  obtained 
for  herself  by  hard  fighting,  and  the  observation  of  the 
various  manoeuvres  by  which  she  had  constantly  added 
to  this  consideration  had  afforded  him  many  moments  of 
pleasure.     There  was  a  simple  "everywoman"  quality 
about  her  that  was  a  delight — beautiful,  uncivilised  little 
animal  that  she  was!    The  more  Margot  "got  on,"  the 
more  possessions  were  added  unto  her,  and  the  more 
sumptuously  she  succeeded  in  clothing  herself,  the  more 
did  his  admiration  of  her  increase.      His   admiration 
reached  its  zenith  after  her  final  stroke  of  good  fortune — 
her  legacy  from  Frensen.     And  then  had  followed  her 
break  with  Vernon,  which  had  upset,  not  only  his  calcu- 
lations, but  his  peace  of  mind.  .   .   . 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  323 

Well,  she  had  pushed  up  her  golden  head  into  the 
sun ;  the  stony  ground  on  which  Fate  had  choosen  to  cast 
her  as  a  child  had  not  prevented  her  from  taking  root, 
growing,  blossoming.  She  wouldn't  stop  now;  her  pro- 
gress would  continue  uninterrupted,  but  in  what  direc- 
tion would  she  travel  henceforth?  What  would  she  do 
next?  This  was  the  question  that  Godfrey  kept  putting 
to  himself,  as  he  sat  with  a  bottle  of  champagne  in  front 
of  him  and  Miss  Laurel  Hope  by  his  side,  listening  to  a 
nigger  band  playing  rags  and  fox-trots.  He  imagined 
he  did  not  want  to  marry;  such  a  step  had  always  been 
contrary  to  his  philosophy.  On  the  other  hand,  the  idea 
at  this  juncture  of  Margot  marrying  anyone  else  was 
insupportable.  If  only  she  had  not  left  Vernon,  he 
might  never  have  thought  of  her  like  this.  It  was  the 
possibility  of  his  carrying  her  off  that  was  so  maddening, 
so  tempting;  the  possibility  of  Her  refusing  him  which 
kept  him  on  tenterhooks. 

Ks  the  summer  wore  on,  his  condition  became  worse 
instead  of  better.  Once  or  twice  he  was  on  the  point 
of  rushing  over  to  France  to  see  her,  if  only  for  an  hour. 
The  thought  of  their  unsatisfactory  good-bye  was  bitter, 
and  he  found  himself  wondering  whether  slie  had  taken 
away  with  her  a  bad  impression  of  him.  He  could  not 
gather  anything  from  her  scrappy  notes :  she  was  always 
an  inadequate  correspondent. 

The  thought  that  he,  of  all  people,  was  rapidly  becom- 
ing one  of  Margot's  victims  deligfited  his  sense  of  hu- 
mour, though  the  joke  was  one  entirely  against  himself. 
Surely  he  was  old  enough  to  know  better,  at  thirty-seven'? 
But  it  was  no  good  struggling.  He  would  never  get 
the  memory  of  her  little  tricks  of  gesture  out  of 
his  head,  nor  stifle  the  recollection  of  the  faint 


324  MARGOf'S  PROGRESS 

perfume  which  always  clung  to  her,  and  of  her  bewilder- 
ing loveliness. 

In  the  middle  of  July  he  had  a  longer  letter  from  her 
than  usual.  She  wrote  this  time  from  Dinant,  where 
she  was  staying  with  the  inevitable  Nugents.  Her  letter 
was  full  of  the  war  scare  which  was  apparently  beginning 
to  disturb  even  that  haunt  of  gilded  peace.  As  she 
seemed  to  fancy  there  was  really  some  truth  in  the 
prevalent  rumours,  he  wrote  to  reassure  her,  but  at  the 
same  time  to  beg  her  to  come  back  to  England.  She 
replied  saying  that  she  would  come  back  to  London  at 
the  end  of  October,  as  soon  as  she  heard  that  her 
decree  had  been  made  absolute.  Meanwhile,  he  was  not 
to  think  of  going  over  to  Dinant  to  fetch  her;  she  was 
not  really  alarmed,  and  in  any  case,  even  if  there 
were  a  war,  she  would  be  safe  enough  in  France  and 
would  enjoy  the  excitement;  she  was  not  in  the  least 
afraid. 

Godfrey  shrugged  his  shoulders  when  he  got  this, 
determined  to  pull  himself  together,  and  went  yachting 
with  a  plutocratic  acquaintance,  specially  cultivated  for 
this  purpose,  along  the  coast  of  Norway.  The  Declara- 
tion caught  him  at  Molde,  a  one-horse  fishing  port 
brought  into  prominence  by  the  Kaiser's  predilection  for 
it,  whence  he  was  unable  to  move  for  a  week  of  hectic 
excitement,  confusion,  and  annoyance.  The  only  gleam 
of  amusement  which  the  situation  afforded  was  its  effect 
on  a  tiresome  member  of  the  party  called  Nigel  Warne- 
ford,  a  middle-aged  stockbroker,  famous  for  his  innum- 
erable pairs  of  boots  and  shoes  and  for  the  enormous 
number  of  clubs  of  which  he  was  a  member.  Poor 
Nigel,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  yacht  remained  all  the 
while  close  inshore,  was  almost  continuously  sea-sick 
from  August  3rd  to  August  loth  inclusive.  The  re- 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  325 

mainder  of  the  guests  were  gamely  nonchalant  when  they 
were  together,  but  avoided  one  another  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, preferring  to  wrestle  in  solitude  with  the  agonising 
task  of  "trying  to  realise  it."  Sir  Harry  Ashford,  who 
owned  the  yacht,  was  the  only  member  of  the  party  who 
remained  comparatively  unmoved.  He  took  the  Norrna 
into  Bergen,  and  there  made  arrangements  as  speedily  as 
he  could  for  the  safety  of  his  yacht  and  of  his  guests. 
The  party  decided  to  go  overland  to  Christiania,  and 
then  to  cross  by  the  next  available  liner  for  Hull. 

Levett's  first  action  when  he  got  back  to  London  was 
to  telegraph  to  Margot  at  her  Hotel  at  Dinant  to  see  if 
she  were  all  right.  He  got  no  reply,  and  feeling  more 
alarmed  than  he  cared  to  admit — indeed,  his  intense 
anxiety  was  a  confirmation,  if  he  needed  any,  of 
how  dear  to  him  Margot  had  become — he  wired  again, 
this  time  to  the  Avenue  Hoche.  After  an  interminable 
delay  he  was  at  last  successful  in  getting  an  answer. 
"Thanks  for  inquiries.  Don't  worry.  Am  quite  safe 
here.  Margot." 

Now  why  on  earth  did  she  want  to  stay  in  Paris? 
Obstinate  little  fool  that  she  was !  He  spent  the  greater 
part  of  the  next  two  days  in  his  club,  waiting  amid  an 
expectant  crowd  of  men  who  stood  gnawing  their  mous- 
taches in  front  of  the  tape  machines.  He  was'ashamed  of 
the  number  of  newspapers  he  bought;  none  of  them 
seemed  to  contain  any  genuine  news.  Where  were  the 
French?  What  were  they  doing?  Why  had  the  French 
Army  only  just  gone  to  help  the  Belgians?  What  had 
really  happened  in  Lorraine? 

At  last  he  could  stand  it  no  longer.  His  man  had 
been  called  up  for  military  service;  he  was  uncomfort- 
able, anxious,  and  hard  up.  If  Margot  was  so  obstinate 
that  she  would  not  come  back  to  London  and  be  properly 


3->6  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

looked  after,  there  was  nothing  for  it — he  would  have  to 
capitulate  and  go  to  her.  Within  forty-eight  hours  of 
arriving  at  this  decision,  after  a  tedious  and  acutely  un- 
comfortable journey,  made  on  the  French  side  in  an 
ancient  and  insanitary  carriage,  he  found  himself  in  an 
almost  cabless  Paris  making  for  Margot's  flat. 

The  familiar  city  presented  an  astonishing  appearance 
on  the  lovely  August  afternoon  of  his  arrival.  There  was 
none  of  the  hectic,  frothy  excitement  which  he  expected 
to  find;  on  the  contrary,  a  well-bred  calm  was  notice- 
able on  the  faces  of  the  women  and  old  men  in  the 
streets.  A  good  many  people  seemed  to  be  wearing  tiny 
Union  Jacks.  Sir  John  French  and  his  staff  had  been 
welcomed  a  day  or  two  before,  and  the  city  was  still  full 
of  enthusiasm  for  Great  Britain,  for  khaki,  and  for 
Tipperary.  Some  of  the  streets  which  were  usually  most 
crowded  were  empty,  and  the  majority  of  the  fashionable 
shops  were  closed.  Immense  iron  shutters  protected  the 
windows  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  and  elsewhere,  which  had 
formerly  been  so  full  of  colour  and  richness.  A  great 
deal  also  of  the  trumpery  nonsense  which  is  character- 
istic of  Parisian  street  commerce  in  ordinary  times  was 
swept  away.  The  boulevards  with  all  the  shrubs,  chairs, 
and  little  tables  of  the  cafes  hurried  indoors  reminded 
Godfrey  of  a  sitting-room  in  a  lodging-house,  from  which 
a  new  tenant  has  banished  the  landlady's  ornaments, 
photographs,  and  odds  and  ends.  A  certain  bareness  and 
austerity  was  observable  in  the  city  as  in  its  inhabitants ; 
essentials,  in  both  cases,  were  no  longer  obscured.  As 
Godfrey  drove  on,  in  the  dilapidated  fiacre  which  he  was 
lucky  to  have  secured,  towards  the  Avenue  Hoche,  he 
was  struck  once  more  by  the  dignified  bearing  of  the 
people  in  the  streets,  particularly  of  the  women.  He 
reflected  that  there  must  be  a  kind  of  noblesse  oblige 


M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS  327 

feeling  in  peoples  as  well  as  in  individuals,  of  ancient 
lineage  and  great  traditions.  After  all,  this  same  Paris 
had  seen  the  Revolution,  the  Siege  of  1870,  and  the 
Commune.  There  wasn't  much  that  could  happen  to 
a  nation  or  to  a  city  through  which  Parisians  had  not 
lived. 

Godfrey's  heart  was  beating  uncomfortably  by  the  time 
his  cab  reached  the  magnificent  expanse  of  the  Avenue 
Hoche.  The  great  road  was  completely  deserted;  the 
shutters  were  up  in  nearly  every  window.  Godfrey  pic- 
tured all  kinds  of  catastrophes  that  might  have  happened 
to  Margot.  He  imagined  her  starving,  perhaps,  or  left 
without  servants,  her  affairs  in  chaos.  The  horror  of 
the  calamity  which  had  befallen  civilisation  overcame 
him,  broke  down  all  his  settled  habits  of  mind, 
and  made  him  long  frankly,  fiercely,  to  hold  Margot  in 
his  arms  and  never  let  her  escape,  to  cling  to  something 
stable  in  the  world  of  illusions  which  was  breaking  up 
all  round  him.  .  .  . 

The  lift  was  not  working;  the  lift-man  had  been 
mobilised.  The  Concierge's  wife  made  her  apologies  and 
told  him  the  number  of  Milday  Stokes's  appartement. 
Godfrey  dismissed  the  cabman  and  walked  up  the  broad 
staircase,  carrying  his  baggage  himself,  till  he  came  to 
Margot's  door.  He  was  kept  waiting  what  seemed  an 
age,  till  at  last  the  door  was  opened  by  an  elderly  female 
servant,  with  wrinkled  face — the  cook,  no  doubt.  Yes, 
Milady  Stokes  was  at  home,  but  she  was  not  receiving. 
"Monsieur  is  from  England.  Ah,  is  it  possible  ?"  Tears 
came  into  the  woman's  eyes  as  she  thought  of  the  dangers 
to  which  Godfrey  must  have  exposed  himself  in  his 
journey  from  a  land  which  now,  for  civilians,  seemed  cut 
off  completely  by  war.  She  asked  Godfrey  to  wait  in 
the  library  while  she  took  in  his  name. 


328  MARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

Then,  in  a  moment,  there  was  a  quick  step  in  the 
passage ;  the  door  was  flung  open. 

"Godfrey!  How  could  you!  I  am  glad.  How  did 
you  manage  to  get  across.  .  .  .  ?"  Margot  looked  pale 
and  thin  with  anxiety  and  shock,  and  the  sight  of 
Godfrey,  in  her  overwrought  condition,  made  her  want 
to  cry  weakly  with  pleasure. 

He  did  not  speak  in  answer  to  her  greeting.  He  did 
not  know  what  to  say;  but  his  arms  enclosed  her,  and 
his  lips  hungrily  and  tenderly  sought  hers.  She  yielded 
to  him,  and  her  body  seemed  completely  to  relax  as  he 
held  her.  He  had  never  known  her  so  gentle.  "Godfrey," 
she  whispered.  "It's  over  four  years  since  you  kissed 
me.  Do  you  know  that.  .  .  .  ?" 

"Why  have  you  kept  me  away  from  you  all  this  time  ? 
Little  wretch!  Why  didn't  you  come  back  to  England 
when  I  told  you  to,  before  the  war?"  he  said.  "Now, 
you  see,  I've  had  to  come  over  to  fetch  you.  I  thought 
the  journey  would  never  end.  The  train  went  at  a  snail's 
pace,  bumped,  shunted,  and  was  examined  by  officials 
every  few  minutes.  You  never  saw  such  antique,  bug- 
stricken  railway-carriages !  I  can't  think  where  they  dug 
them  up  from.  Where  are  the  Nugents  ?" 

"Oh,  they  went  back  to  London  just  in  time." 

"Trust  them!"  said  Godfrey.  "All  the  same,  why 
didn't  you  come  too,  you  disobedient  creature?  What 
was  the  point  of  staying  on  here?" 

"I  don't  know.  Who  knows  what  is  the  point  of  any- 
thing a  woman  does?  There  probably  was  a  point.  I 
just  didn't  want  to  come  back  to  London.  I  thought  I'd 
stay  on  here,  war  or  no  war.  After  all,  I've  got  two 
properties  in  France  and  none  in  England.  I  didn't  want 
to  lose  all  my  possessions.  What  was  the  use  of  running 
away  and  trusting  to  luck?  As  it  is,  all  the  really  valu- 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  329 

able  things  here  and  in  the  Villa  des  Roses  are  as  safely 
packed  away  as  it  was  possible  to  arrange  for.  Things 
haven't  really  been  so  bad.  The  rumours  are  the  worst. 
To-day  we  hear  that  everyone  who  can  is  going  to  leave 
Paris.  I  shan't!  At  first  it  was  rather  difficult  when 
we  thought  England  wasn't  going  to  join  in.  But  now 
everybody  is  'content  avec  1'Angleterre.'  No,  I'm  glad 
I  didn't  go  back  to  London.  Besides,  there  was  you. 
You  were  much  too  'up'  on  yourself,  my  dear.  I  thought 
I'd  leave  you  for  a  bit  till  you  ..." 

"Till  I  what?"  said  Godfrey,  with  rising  colour. 

"Come  and  see  the  rest  of  the  flat,"  Margot  replied 
irrelevantly.  "Most  of  the  good  things  are  put  away. 
.  .  .I've  only  three  servants  in  the  place — Ernestine, 
Louise,  and  a  housemaid." 

She  took  him  into  the  various  magnificent  rooms  of 
the  flat,  which  had  been  left  in  almost  exactly  the  same 
state  as  they  were  when  it  came  into  Margot's  hands. 
Only  the  salon  had  been  altered  and  made  less  formal. 
As  they  entered  the  room,  they  both  looked  at  Courbet's 
portrait  of  Carl  Frensen  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight,  which 
hung  on  the  wall  facing  them,  framed  in  black.  What 
a  strong,  interesting,  unscrupulous  face  it  was,  and  how 
the  dark,  red-brown,  magnetic  eyes  seemed  to  stare  out 
of  the  picture,  looking  into  their  hearts!  They  were 
cynical,  understanding  eyes,  but  neither  to  Godfrey  nor 
to  Margot  did  they  seem  unsympathetic. 

Margot  sank  into  a  deep  bergere,  putting  her  hand  on 
the  cushion  for  Godfrey  to  sit  beside  her.  Then  suddenly 
her  head  sank  down  and  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands.  The  rare  tears  trickled  through  her  white  fingers. 
Godfrey  had  never  believed  her  capable  of  tears. 
Hard,  gamine,  truculent,  ruthless,  selfish,  amusing, 
jewel-like  in  her  undimmed  brightness — all  these  things 


330  M ARGOTS  PROGRESS 

he  knew  her  to  be.  Why  was  she  weeping?  She 
cried  quite  silently,  without  any  movement  of  her 
shoulders. 

He  put  his  lips  to  her  gold,  fragrant  hair,  but  she  did 
not  want  to  be  caressed,  and  looked  up  at  him  with 
swimming  eyes. 

"Oh,  this  war!"  she  moaned.  "Godfrey,  I've  seen 
him  .  .  .  Vernon !  He  looked  so  brown  and  brave  and 
well,  and  so  handsome.  He  was  in  Paris  yesterday,  with 
some  other  English  officers.  I  suppose  he  rejoined  his 
regiment  at  once — he  was  on  the  reserve.  .  .  .  He  is 
certain  to  be  killed;  and  I  shall  feel  wretched  all  my 
life  for  having  made  him  miserable — just  at  the  end. 
He  hasn't  had  time  yet  to  console  himself  with  Ida. 
Poor  old  Vernon.  It's  all  too  awful.  .  .  .  And  yet  ... 
I  don't  really  like  him  any  more,  although  I'm  so  sorry 
for  the  poor  dear.  It's  no  use  my  pretending  I  do.  I 
suppose  I've  no  heart !" 

She  dried  her  eyes  and  sat  back  in  the  chair  for  a 
moment  without  speaking.  "I  think  my  nerves  must 
have  given  away,"  she  said  at  last.  "I  have  done  nothing 
but  cry  since  this  wretched  war  started.  What's  the  good 
of  it — that's  what  I  should  like  to  know?  Who  wants 
a  war?  What  is  it  all  about?  Nobody  is  'patriotic' 
nowadays,  or  cares  what  country  he  belongs  to,  so  long 
as  it  is  big  and  rich  and  civilised.  I  tell  you,  Godfrey,  I'm 
just  about  fed  up  with  all  this  patriotism.  It's  so  terribly 
old-fashioned.  If  there  had  been  no  flag-wagging  there 
wouldn't  have  been  any  war.  I  wish  these  wretched 
boches  could  all  be  stewed  in  boiling  oil,  and  the  Kaiser 
torn  to  pieces  by  wolves.  What  is  the  good  of  living  in 
the  twentieth  century  at  all,  if  the  world  is  going  to 
behave  like  this!  And  there's  poor  Vernon.  .  .  .  The 
only  thing  he  cared  for  was  his  looks,  and  if  he  isn't 


MARGOTS  PROGRESS  331 

killed  he's  certain  to  be  mangled,  or  blinded,  or  become 
a  cripple.  .  .  .  Of  course,  it's  people  of  his  sort  who  are 
responsible  for  it  all ;  it  isn't  the  lower  classes — the  class 
that  I  spring  from — who've  done  it,  Godfrey.  We  aren't 
guilty.  It's  the  effete  aristocrats,  who  are  born  with 
everything  they  want  and  haven't  got  to  fight  for  it,  who 
are  the  cause  of  all  this  misery.  War  gives  them  romance, 
excitement,  glory,  and  all  that — something  to  live  for, 
like  a  more  dangerous  kind  of  sport.  It  serves  to  bolster 
up  all  your  rotten,  antiquated  traditions  of  caste.  And 
now  'father's  sword'  is  going  to  make  Mittle  gentlemen' 
out  of  thousands  more  unfortunate  youths  who  otherwise 
might  be  getting  ahead  and  doing  something!  I'm  a 
modern  woman — you  are  modern  too,  Godfrey.  But 
Vernon,  and  his  sort,  are  just  an  old-fashioned  survival. 
Back  numbers!  That  was  why  we  fell  apart.  ...  It 
isn't  any  good  my  pretending  to  be  like  the  other  women. 
I'm  not.  I'm  not  one  of  them :  like  Vivie  Nugent,  for 
example.  I  bet  Vivie  will  be  rushing  about  London  now, 
in  someone  else's  car,  busy  doing  'war  work' — as  pleased 
as  Punch!" 

Godfrey  laughed  at  her  vehemence.  "You  are  quite 
right,"  he  said.  "Half  the  idle  women  in  London  have 
gone  mad  with  excitement  and  are  working  nineteen 
hours  a  day!" 

"My  sort  of  person  doesn't  need  war  to  bring  an 
excitement  into  life,  Godfrey.  I  get  all  the  excitement 
7  need,  thank  you,  in  fighting  for  the  things  I  want.  I 
wasn't  born  with  anything  at  all.  Life  itself  has  been 
my  war ;  and  so  it  is  for  everyone  with  anything  in  them, 
except  these  beastly  aristocrats.  I'd  start  a  revolution 
to-morrow,  Godfrey,  if  I  could.  There  are  millions  more 
poor  people  than  rich  in  the  world,  and  the  poor  don't 
to  fight.  Don't  tell  me!  It's  the  rich  who  trick 


332  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

them  into  it.  ...  I'm  going  to  turn  the  Villa  des  Roses 
into  a  hospital  for  wounded  Tommies:  no  officers  or 
gentlemen  admitted!  And  you  had  better  buckle  to  and 
drive  the  car,  after  I've  had  it  converted  into  an  ambu- 
lance. I'm  not  going  to  have  you  enlist  as  a  Colonel, 
my  dear,  or  any  rot  like  that." 

Godfrey  listened  to  Margot's  outburst  with  surprise 
mingled  with  amusement  and  appreciation. 

"The  war  has  evidently  effected  a  marvellous  con- 
version in  you  already,  Margot!"  he  said  with  a  smile. 
"It's  quite  clear  you  will  never  wish  to  make  boss  shots 
at  the  best  people  any  more,  so  perhaps  you'll  reconcile 
yourself  to  marrying  a  social  detrimental  this  time.  I'm 
not  sure  your  conversion  didn't  start  when  I  persuaded 
you  to  throw  up  that  bazaar  at  the  Duchess  of  Stretton's ; 
do  you  remember?" 

"I  wonder  why  men  always  begin  to  grin  as  soon  as 
a  woman  talks  sense?"  remarked  Margot  irrelevantly. 
"I  suppose  it  is  to  show  their  superiority,  or  else  to 
conceal  the  fact  that  they  haven't  been  clever  enough  to 
grasp  the  point.  ...  I  dare  say  it  takes  something  like 
a  war,  though,  to  show  one  what  one  really  thinks  and 
feels."  Her  tone  changed  as  she  added:  "During  the 
last  fortnight  all  kinds  of  things  seem  to  have  become 
clearer,  Godfrey.  ..."  She  gave  him  a  swift  glance 
out  of  her  shining  blue  eyes.  Her  red  lips,  usually  so 
firmly  set  in  their  delicate  curves,  seemed  to  tremble  now 
as  though  they  might  either  break  into  a  smile  or  droop 
again  with  distress.  Her  bosom  rose  and  fell  under  the 
thin  black  silk  of  her  frock,  and  to  Godfrey  she  had  never 
before  seemed  so  womanly,  and  so  desirable,  and  so 
elusive.  She  got  up  from  the  double  armchair  and 
walked  across  the  room  to  the  chimneypiece  as  though 
she  had  all  at  once  become  acutely  ill  at  ease.  Godfrey 


MARGOT'S  PROGRESS  333 

rose  too  and  went  across  to  where  she  waited  looking 
down,  her  head  turned  away  from  him. 

"Darling,"  he  said,  taking  her  in  his  arms,  "I  hope 
one  of  the  things  you  see  more  clearly  now  is  the  fact 
that  I  adore  you.  ..."  Margot  did  not  answer.  Her 
face  flushed  a  deep  crimson,  and,  as  this  was  hardly 
becoming,  it  was  presumably  involuntary.  "I'm  not 
going  ever  to  let  you  go  again,"  he  went  on.  "I  won't 
let  the  wretched  war  hurt  you,  my  love.  Nothing  can 
hurt  either  of  us  if  we  care  for  each  other.  I  don't  sup- 
pose you  could  really  care  for  anyone,  though!"  he 
added  with  a  sigh.  She  looked  up  angrily  at  this.  Then, 
with  the  spontaneity  that  was  always  one  of  her  greatest 
charms,  she  threw  her  soft  arms  round  him  and  buried 
her  face  in  his  coat. 

"I  shouldn't  let  you  stay  here  and  talk  rot  if  I  didn't 
love  you,"  she  said.  "And  I  don't  want  you  to 
go.  .  .  ." 

With  the  old  life  breaking  up  all  round  them,  the  old 
interests,  amusements,  vices  being  swept  away  before 
the  tempest  of  war,  they  clung  together  united  in  the 
great  simplicity  of  affection.  Of  the  two  of  them, 
Godfrey  had  changed  most.  The  war  had  torn  from  him 
his  outer  garments  of  insincerity  and  pose,  had  acted  as 
a  tonic  for  the  soul,  giving  him  vigour,  courage,  energy, 
hope,  and  a  certain  ruthlessness.  If  the  world  chose  to 
go  mad,  he  and  Margot  would  keep  their  heads,  and  when 
peace  came  they  would  find  happiness  and  zest  for  life 
amid  the  universal  chaos !  In  the  glorious  days  to  come 
a  new  existence  would  begin  for  them  both,  purged  of  the 
old  vicious  follies  and  cheap  ambitions.  This  war  would 
open  wide  the  windows,  letting  out  the  overheated,  foul, 
vice-laden  atmosphere,  letting  in  the  clean,  fresh  winds. 
Oh,  there  would  come  a  time  when  the  sun  would  shine 


334  M ARGOT'S  PROGRESS 

as  it  had  never  shone  before ;  there  would  come  a  spring 
— after  all  this  misery — when  their  hearts  would  exult 
with  joy  of  living !  In  this  new  world  his  unconquerable 
Margot  would  come  into  her  own.  She  was  born  for  it, 
a  veritable  pioneer.  And  she  would  take  him  with  her 
on  into  the  sunshine. 


THE  END. 


A     000  047  468     4 


